
PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BURNS. 









4* 






THE POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



y 



ROBERT BURNS 



EDITED BY 



ALEXANDER SMITH 



With Glossarial Index and Biographical Memoir 



FAMILY EDITION. FULLY ILLUSTRATED WITH NEW WOOD ENGRAVINGS. WITH 
BORDER BY C. A. VANDERHOFF. 




NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES 

SUCCESSOR TO WHITE, STOKES, & AEEEN 
IS87 




\^/Nj^p*^^^* 






^ 



*> 




Copyright, 1887, 
By FREDERICK A. STOKES, 

SUCCESSOR TO WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN. 




CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Biographical Preface . . . ix-xxxiii 

The Twa Dogs i 

Scotch Drink 6 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer . 9 

"The Holy Fair 14 

Death and Doctor Hornbook • . 19 

The Brigs of Ayr ..... 24 

The Ordination 29 

The Calf 30 

Address to the Deil . . . . 31 
^ The Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Mailie, the Author's only pet Yowe . 33 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 34 

To James Smith ..... 34 

A Dream ....... 37 

The Vision ...... 38 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 

Righteous ...... 42 

Tarn Samson's Elegy. .... 43 

"Halloween 45 

The Jolly Beggars 49 

A Winter Night 54 

/The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie . 57 
To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest, 

with the plough 58 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . . 59 
The Lament, occasioned by the Unfortu- 
nate Issue of a Friend's Amour . . 61 
..The Cotter's Saturday Night . . 62 

Despondency 66 

Winter 67 

Man was made to mourn ... 68 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 69 

A Prayer in the prospect of Death . . 70 

Stanzas on the same occasion . . . 70 
Lying at a Reverend Friend's house one 

night 71 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm 71 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent 

anguish 72 

The First Psalm 72 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . 72 

To Ruin 72 

Epistle to a Young Friend ... 73 



To a Mountain Daisy 

To a Haggis ..... 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's 
Bonnet at Church . 

Address to Edinburgh .... 

Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scottish 
Bard 

To the Same 

To William Simpson .... 

Epistle to John Rankine . 

Written in Friar's-Carse Hermitage 

Ode, sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Os 
wald ....... 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the 
Approach of Spring 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. . 

To Robert Graham, of Fintra, Esq. 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . 

Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, of 
Whiteford, Bart., with the foregoing 
Poem 

Tarn O'Shanter 

On the Late Captain Grose's Peregrina- 
tions through Scotland 

On seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 
crowning his Bust at Ednam 

To Miss Cruikshank 

On the Death of John M'Leod, Esq 

The humble Petition of Bruar Water to the 
noble Duke of Athole . 

The Kirk's Alarm 

Address to the Toothache . 

Written with a Pencil over the Chimney 
piece in the parlour of the inn at Ken 
more, Taymouth 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, born 
in peculiar circumstances of family dis 
tress 

Written with a pencil, standing by the Fal 
of Fyers, near Lockness 
j Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 

The Inventory of the Poet's Goods and 
Chattels 



PAGE. 

74 
75 
75 



85 



87 



102 
103 
105 

106 



107 
107 






IV 



CONTENTS. 




The Whistle . . . . . .109 

Sketch, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. 
Fox ....... in 

To Dr. Blacklock 112 

Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries 113 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet . . 114 

The following Poem was written to a gen- 
tleman who had sent him a newspaper, 
and offered to continue it free of ex- 
pense 

Lines on an interview with Lord Daer . 

The Rights of Woman. Prologue spoken 
by Miss Fontenelle .... 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle 

Verses to a Young Lady 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry .... 

Verses to Chloris, with a copy of the last 
edition of his Poems . 

Poetical Address to Mr. William Tytler 

Sketch. — New-Year Day 

Extempore, on Mr. William Smellie 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence 

Monody on a Lady famed for her Caprice 

Sonnet, on the Death of Robert Riddel, 
Esq. of Glenriddel .... 

Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel's birthday 

To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries . 

Verses written under violent grief 

Extempore to Mr. Syme, on refusing to 
dine with him 

To Mr. Syme 

Sonnet, on hearing a Thrush sing 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he 
fended 

Poem on Life .... 

Epitaph on a Friend 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry 

Verses written at Selkirk 

A Grace before Dinner 

Inscription on the Tombstone of the 
Fergusson 

A Verse, repeated on taking leave 
place in the Highlands . 

Liberty 

Fragment of an Ode to the memory of 
Prince Charles Edward Stuart . 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux, 

Answer to Verses addressed to the Poet by 
the Guidwife of Wauchope House 

To J. Lapraik 

The Twa Herds 

To the Rev. John M'Math . 

Holy Willie's Prayer .... 

Epitaph on Holy Willie .... 

On scaring some Water Fowl in Loch- 
Turit 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchline 

To Captain Riddel, Glenriddel 

Epistle to Mr. M'Adam .... 

To Terraughty, on his Birthday . 

Verses intended to be written below a 
noble Earl's picture .... 



had 



Poet 



115 

"5 

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118 

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122 
122 

123 
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124 

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125 

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127 
127 



To a Lady, with a present of a pair of 
drinking-glasses 

Elegy on the year 1788 .... 

The Vowels 

Sketch ... . . . 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fer- 
gusson the Poet ..... 

Lament written at a time when the Poet 
was about to leave Scotland . 

Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's benefit . 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, 

Delia . . . . . 

Verses to an old Sweetheart, then married 

The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate 
Child 

To Miss Ferrier .... 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock 

Letter to James Tait, Glenconnor . 

Epistle to Hugh Parker . 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria 

A Farewell .... 

The Farewell 

On a Suicide .... 

The League and Covenant . 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq. 

Verses on the Destruction of the Woods 
near Drumlanrig 

Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry 

Epistle to Major Logan . 

To Mr. John Kennedy 

To JohnM'Murdo, Esq. . '. 

Lines written at Loudon Manse 

Epitaph on the Poet's Daughter . 

Epitaph on Gabriel Richardson 

On Stirling 

Lines on being told that the above Verses 
would affect his prospects 

The Reply 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of 
the Highland Society .... 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq. 

Orthodox, Orthodox. A Second Version 
of The Kirk's Alarm 

The Selkirk Grace .... 

Elegy on the Death of Peg Nicholson 

Written on a Blank Leaf of one of Miss 
Hannah More's Works, which she had 
given him 

On the Death of a Lap-dog, named Echo 

On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a Favourite 
Character 

Epitaph on Miss Jessy Lewars 

The Recovery of Jessy Lewars 

The Kirk of Lamington . 

Inscription on a Goblet 

The Book-worms 

On Robert Riddel 

Willie Chalmers 

On Miss Jessy Lewars 

The Toad-eater 

Lines written on a Bank Note 

Remorse .... 

The Toast .... 



140 
140 
141 

141 



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I57 > 
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X I 9 
100 



161 
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163 





CONTENTS. 



ike the Honest Nappy 



PAGE. 

. 167 
167 
167 
167 

. 167 
168 



To John Taylor . 

To 

There's Naethin' 

Fragment 

Epigram on a Noted Coxcomb . 

' In Vain Would Prudence ' . 

1 Though Fickle Fortune ' . . 

The Loyal Natives' Verses . 

Burns — Extempore 

' I Burn, I Burn' 

Tarn the Chapman 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's 
Recovery 

Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods, on his 
benefit night 170 

Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed 
to G. H. Esq. 171 

The Cats Like Kitchen . . . . 171 

Poverty . 171 

Tragic Fragment 172 

Extempore. Pinned to a Lady's Coach 172 

Lines on being asked why God had made 

Miss Davies so little and Mrs. so 

large ....... 

Fragments 

Verses written on a Window of the Inn at 
Carron 

Epigram. Written at Inverary 

Verses addressed to J. Rankine 

Lines said to have been written by Burns, 
while on his Death-bed, to John Rankine 

Lines written Extempore in a Lady's 
Pocket Book 

The Henpeck'd Husband 

Extempore Lines, in answer to a Card 
from an Intimate Friend of Burns 

Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent the 
Author by a Tailor 

A Toast. Given at a meeting of the Dum- 
friesshire Volunteers 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord Gal 
loway 

On the Same 

On the Same 

To the Same, on the Author being threat- 
ened with his Resentment 

Epitaph on a Henpeck'd Country Squire. 

Epigram on said occasion . 

Another ....... 

On hearing that there was Falsehood in 
the Rev. Dr. B 's very Looks . 178 



169 
169 

169 



Extemporaneous Effusion, on being ap- 
pointed to the Excise .... 

Lines written on a Window at the King's 
Arms Tavern, Dumfries 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fife- 
shire . • 

Lines written and presented to Mrs. Kem- 
ble ...... 

Epitaph on William Nicol . 

Verses to J. Rankine 

Extempore in the Court of Session . 

Epitaph on John Dove . 

Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline 

Lines written on the Window of the Globe 
Tavern, Dumfries .... 

Epigram on Captain Francis Grose 

Lines written under the picture of the cele 
brated Miss Burns .... 

On Miss J. Scott of Ayr . 

Epitaph on John Bushby 

Epigram on Elphinstone's Translation of 
Martial's Epigrams .... 

Epitaph on a Country Laird 

Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic . 

Epitaph on Wee Johnny . 

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder 

Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq. 

Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

Epitaph on my Father 

Epitaph on a Person nicknamed " The 
Marquis " 

On Himself 

Epitaph on Walter S . 

Grace before Meat .... 

On Commissary Goldie's Brains 

Impromptu 

Impromptu 

Epigram 

A Bard's Epitaph .... 

Addressed to a Lady whom the Author 
feared he had offended . 

Lines inscribed on a platter . 

To a Painter ..... 

On Mr. M'Murdo .... 

To 



To a Lady who was looking up the Text 
during Sermon .... 

To 

Lines written on a Tumbler 

On Mr. W. Cruikshank, of the High 
School, Edinburgh 



(VGE. 

178 
179 



179 
179 
180 
180 
180 
180 



182 
182 
182 
182 
182 
183 
183 
183 

183 
183 
184 
184 
184 



185 
185 
185 
186 
186 



186 
187 

187 



SONGS. 



The Lass o' Ballochmyle . . . 188 

Naebody 188 

Song of Death 189 

Auld Rob Morris 189 

My ain kind Dearie O . . . . 190 

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing . . 190 

Duncan Gray 190 



O Poortith 191 

Lord Gregory 191 

Galla Water 192 

There was a Lass .... 192 

Logan Braes 193 

Phillis the Fair 193 

Open the Door to me, Oh! . . . 194 







Kj^ifcs*^ 




CONTENTS, 



Meg o' the Mill .... 

Jessie 

Wandering Willie .... 
By Allan Stream .... 
Husband, Husband, cease your Strife 
Had I a Cave ..... 
Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad 
Deluded Swain ..... 

Song 

Wilt thou be my Dearie . 

Banks of Cree .... 

On the Seas and far away 

Hark ! the Mavis .... 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . 

She says she lo'es me best of a' 

The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mis 

tress 

How lang and dreary 
TheAuldMan .... 
Farewell thou Stream . . < . 

Contented wi' little 
My Nannie's awa .... 
Sweet fa's the Eve .... 

Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 

Song 

'Twas na her bonie blue e'e 
Address to the Woodlark 
How cruel are the Parents 
Mark yonder Pomp 

1 see a Form, I see a Face . . . 

bonie was yon rosy Brier . 
Stay, my Charmer .... 
Last May a Braw Wooer 
Hey for a Lass wi* a Tocher 
Altho' thou maun never be mine . 
The Lazy Mist .... 
My Tocher's the Jewel . 
Forlorn, my Love .... 
The young Highland Rover . 
Strathallan's Lament . 
The Birks of Aberfeldy 
Full well thou know'st 
Raving Winds around her blowing 
Musing on the roaring Ocean . 
Blithe was she .... 
Peggy's Charms 
A Rose-bud by my early Walk 
Tibbie, I hae seen the Day 

1 love my Jean . 
O, were I on Parnassus' Hill ! . 
The Braes o' Ballochmyle 
The Blissful Day .... 
The Happy Trio .... 
John Anderson, my Jo 

Tarn Glen 

What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld 

Man ? . ... 

The Blue-eyed Lassie 

Gane is the Day .... 

O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! . 

Bessy and her Spinnin Wheel 

Fair Eliza ...... 

Louis, what reck I by thee? . 



'AGE. 

194 
195 
195 
196 
196 
197 
197 



199 
199 
200 
200 



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202 
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203 
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212 
212 

212 
2T3 
213 
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215 
215 
215 



2l6 
2l6 
2l6 
217 




The Banks of Nith _ 
The Bonie Wee Thing 
Country Lassie 

May, thy Morn . 
The Banks o' Doon 

Version printed in the Musical Museum 
She's fair and fause 
The Posie 
Afton Water 
Gloomy December . 
Behold the hour 
Willie's Wife . . . 

Bonie Bell 

For the sake of Somebody 

The Lovely Lass of Inverness . 

A red, red Rose 

Peggy's Charms 

O, wat ye wha's in yon Town ? 

The Highland Lassie . . 

Jockey's ta'en the parting Kiss 

Bonie Ann ..... 

Up in the Morning early 

My bonie Mary .... 

A Vision .... 

O, wert thou in the cauld Blast 

My heart's in the Highlands . 

There's a Youth in this City . . 

1 dream'd I lay where Flowers were spring- 

ing 

Farewell to Nancy . 

The rantin Dog the Daddie o't . 

Wha is that at my Bower Door ? 

I do confess thou art sae fair 

Out over the Forth 

Tho' cruel Fate . . . 

Yon wild mossy Mountains . 

The De'il's awa wi' the Exciseman 

Where are the joys 

Banks of Devon 

The bonie Blink o' Mary's ee 

The bonie Lad that's far away . 

Streams that glide . . 

Blithe hae I been on yon Hill . 

The gowden Locks of Anna . 

O were my Love yon Lilac fair . 

Adown winding Nith 

My Chloris .... 

Come, let me take thee . 

Thou hast leftme ever, Jamie . 

On Chloris being ill 

Canst thou leave me thus . 

O saw ye my dear . 

Charming Month of May . 

Song 

John Barleycorn . . . 
Why, why tell thy Lover 

OPhilly 

Farewell to Eliza . . 

Let not Woman e'er complain . 

The Rigs o' Barley 

My Nanie, O . 

Now westlin Winds 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood 




230 
230 
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241 
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241 
242 
243 



M 



* 







CONTENTS. 



Vll 






PAGE. 

Caledonia 244 

The big-bellied Bottle . . . -245 
Green grow the Rashes .... 246 
The Author's Farewell to his native Coun- 
try 246 

The Farewell 247 

For a' that and a' that .... 247 

And maun I still on Menie doat . . 248 

The gallant Weaver .... 248 

To Mr. Cunningham .... 249 

Auld Lang Syne 249 

Dainty Davie 250 

Clarinda ....... 250 

Bannockburn 250 

Highland Mary 251 

The Dumfries Volunteers . . . .251 

On the Battle of Sheriff-Muir . . 252 

Whistle owre the Lave o't ... 252 

O wha is she that lo'es me 253 

Captain Grose 253 

O, once I lov'd a bonie Lass . . . 254 

A Bottle and Friend ..... 254 

I'll kiss thee yet 254 

Young Jockey 254 

The Dean of Faculty .... 255 

M'Pherson's Farewell .... 255 

On Cessnock Banks .... 256 

Young Peggy 257 

I'll ay ca' in by yon Town . . . 257 

Prayer for Mary 257 

There was a Lad 258 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes 

hame ....... 258 

To Mary 259 

Mary Morison ..... 259 
A Mother's Lament for the Death of her 

Son 259 

The Soger's Return 260 

Bonie Lesley 260 

Amang the Trees 261 

On Sensibility 261 

Sweetest May 261 

My Father was a Farmer . . . 262 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle . . 263 

Montgomerie's Peggy .... 263 

O raging Fortune's Withering Blast . 263 

Women's Minds ..... 263 
On a Bank of Flowers . . . .264 

Evan Banks 264 

To Mary in Heaven 265 

To Maiy 265 

Fragment 265 

Address to General Dumourier . . 266 

One Night as I did wander . . . 266 

I'm owre young to marry yet . . 266 

Damon and Sylvia 266 

Here's a Health to them that's awa . 267 

O leave Novels 267 

The Torbolton Lasses .... 267 
The Torbolton Lasses . . . .268 

The Winter it is past .... 269 

The Chevalier's Lament .... 270 

The Belles of Mauchline . . . 270 



PAGE. 

Wee Willie 270 

My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't . 271 

Robin shure in Hairst .... 271 

O why the Deuce 271 

The Banks of Nith 272 

Bonie Peg ...... 272 

O guid Ale comes 272 

O lay thy loof in mine, Lass . . . 272 

O ay my Wife she dang me 272 

Polly Stewart ..... 273 

The Deuk's dang o'er my Daddie . . 273 

The Union 273 

There was a bonie Lass .... 273 

The five Carlins ..... 274 

My Harry was a Gallant gay . . . 275 

As down the Burn they took their way . 275 
Here's his Health in Water . . .275 

The Lass that made the Bed to me . 276 

Craigie-burn-wood 276 

Lady Onlie ...... 277 

Our Thrissles flourished fresh and fair . 277 

As I was a-wandering .... 278 

Tibbie Dunbar 278 

Had I the Wyte 279 

Her Daddie forbad 279 

Hey, the dusty Miller .... 279 

Braw Lads of Galla Water . . . 280 

The Lass of Ecclefechan . . . 280 

Hee Balou 280 

The Cardin' o't 280 

Peg-a-Ramsey 281 

Coming through the Rye . . . 281 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie . . . 281 

Bannocks o' Barley . . . . 281 

The joyful Widower ..... 282 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie face . . . 282 

The Slave's Lament 282 

Here's to thy Health, my bonie Lass . 283 

My heart was ance ..... 283 

Jamie, come try me .... 284 

Landlady, count the Lawin . . . 284 

My Love she's but a Lassie yet . . 284 

The Captain's Lady 284 

Lady Mary Ann 285 

Simmer's a pleasant Time . . . 285 

Sae far awa ...... 285 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary . . 286 

The Farewell 286 

Rattlin', roarin' Willie .... 286 

Lovely Davies 287 

Kenmure's on and awa .... 287 

O steer her up .... . 287 

The blude red Rose at Yule may blaw . 288 

O, whar did ye get ..... 288 

Merry hae I been teethin' a Heckle . . 289 

Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . . 289 

The Fete Champetre .... 290 

Nithsdale's welcome Hame . . . 290 

The Highland Widow's Lament . . 291 

The tither Morn 291 

The Ploughman 292 

The Cooper o' Cuddie .... 292 

Whare hae ye been 292 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 




The Highland Laddie . 


293 


Cock up your Beaver 


• 293 


The Carles of Dysart . 


293 


My Hoggie 


• 293 


The Carle of Kellyburn Braes . . 


294 


The Tailor 


• 295 


The weary Pund o' Tow . . 


296 


Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray . 
When I think on the happy Days . 


. 296 


296 


The Heron Ballads. First Ballad . 


• 2 97 


The Election. Second Ballad 


297 


An excellent new Song. Third Ballad 


• 299 


John Bushby's Lamentation . 


299 


Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain . 


. 300 


Ye sons of Old Killie . 


301 


Ye Jacobites by name 


. 301 


Wae is my Heart .... 


302 


There was a Lass .... 


• 302 


The Heather was blooming . 


3°3 


Eppie M'Nab 


• 303 


The Collier Laddie 


304 



Song — Ah, Chloris . 304 

Katharine Jaffray . 304 

Whan I sleep, I dream .... 304 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer . . . 305 

There's News, Lasses .... 305 

O that I had ne'er been married . . 305 

An O ! my Eppie 305 

Frae the Friends and Land I love . 306 

Scroggam . 306 

The bonie Lass of Albany . . . 306 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith . . 307 

Song 307 

Appendix: — 

Elegy ..... . _ . 309 

Extempore. To Mr. Gavin Hamilton 311 

Versicles on Sign-posts . . . 311 

Patient Stupidity 311 

Notes 312 

Glossary 341 

Index of First Lines ..... 357 






BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Robert Burns was born about two miles to the south of Ayr, in the neighbor- 
hood of Alloway Kirk and the Bridge of Doon, on the 25th January, 1759. The cot- 
tage, a clay one, had been constructed by his father, and a week after the poet's birth 
it gave way in a violent wind, and mother and child were carried at midnight to the 
shelter of a neighbor's dwelling. 

When Burns became famous he wore, more however for ornament than use — like 
the second jacket of a hussar — a certain vague Jacobitism. Both in his verses and 
his letters he makes allusion to the constancy with which his ancestors followed the 
banner of the Stuarts, and to the misfortunes which their loyalty brought upon them. 
The family was a Kincardineshire one, — in which county, indeed, it can be traced 
pretty far back by inscriptions in churchyards, documents appertaining to leases, and 
the like, — and the poet's grandfather and uncles were out, it is said, in the Rebellion 
of 1 715. When the title and estates of the Earl Marischal were forfeited on account 
of the uprising, Burns's grandfather seems to have been brought into trouble. He lost 
his farm, and his son came southward in search of employment. The poet's father, 
who spelt his name Burnes or Burness, and who was suspected of having a share in 
the Rebellion of 1745, came into the neighborhood of Edinburgh, where he obtained 
employment as a gardener. Afterwards he went into Ayrshire, where, becoming over- 
seer to Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm, and leasing a few acres of land, he erected a house 
and brought home his wife, Agnes Brown, in December, 1757. Robert was the firstborn. 
Brain, hypochondria, and general superiority he inherited from his father ; from his 
mother he drew his lyrical gift, his wit, his mirth. She had a fine complexion, bright 
dark eyes, cheerful spirits, and a memory stored with song and ballad — a love for 
which Robert drew in with her milk. 

In 1766 William Burness removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant in the parish of 
Ayr ; but the soil was sour and bitter, and on the death of Mr. Ferguson, to whom 
Mount Oliphant belonged, the management of the estate fell into the hands of a 
factor, of whom all the world has heard. Disputes arose between the official and the 
tenant. Harsh letters were read by the fireside at Mount Oliphant, and were remem- 
bered years afterwards, bitterly enough, by at least one of the listeners. Burness left 
his farm after an occupancy of six years, and removed to Lochlea, a larger and better 
one, in the parish of Torbolton. Here, however, an unfortunate difference arose 
between tenant and landlord as to the conditions of lease. Arbiters were chosen, and 
a decision was given in favor of the proprietor. This misfortune seems to have broken 
the spirit of Burness. He died of consumption on the 13th February, 1784, weary 
enough of his long strife with poverty and ungenial soils, but not before he had learned 
to take pride in the abilities of his eldest son, and to tremble for his passions. 

Burness was an admirable specimen of the Scottish yeoman, or small farmer, of the 
last century ; for peasant he never was, nor did he come of a race of peasants. In his 
whole mental build and training, he was superior to the people by whom he was sur- 
rounded. He had forefathers he could look back to ; he had family traditions which 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 





he kept sacred. Hard-headed, industrious, religious, somewhat austere, he ruled his 
household with a despotism which affection and respect on the part of the ruled made 
light and easy. To the blood of the Burnesses a love of knowledge was native, as 
valor, in the old times, was native to the blood of the Douglases. The poet's grand- 
father built a school at Clockenhill in Kincardine, the first known in that part of the 
country. Burness was of the same strain, and he resolved that his sons should have 
every educational advantage his means could allow. To secure this he was willing to 
rise early and drudge late. Accordingly, Robert, when six years old, was sent to a 
school at Alloway Mill, and on the removal of the teacher a few months afterwards to 
another post, Burness, in conjunction with a few of his neighbors, engaged Mr. John 
Murdoch, boarding him in their houses by turns, and paying him a small sum of money 
quarterly. Mr. Murdock entered upon his duties, and had Robert and Gilbert for 
pupils. Under him they acquired reading, spelling, and writing ; they were drilled in 
English grammar, taught to turn verse into prose, to substitute synonymous expres- 
sions for poetical words, and to supply ellipses. He also attempted to teach them a 
little church music, but with no great success. He seems to have taken to the boys, 
and to have been pleased with their industry and intelligence. Gilbert was his favorite 
on account of his gay spirits and frolicksome look. Robert was by comparison taci- 
turn — distinctly stupid in the matter of psalmody — and his countenance was swarthy, 
serious, and grave. 

Our information respecting the family circle at Mount Oliphant, more interesting 
now than that of any other contemporary Scottish family circle, is derived entirely from 
the reminiscences of the tutor, and of Gilbert and Robert themselves. And however 
we may value every trivial fact and hint, and attempt to make it a window of insight, 
these days, as they passed on, seemed dull and matter-of-fact enough to all concerned. 
Mr. Murdoch considered his pupils creditably diligent, but nowise remarkable. To 
Gilbert, these early years were made interesting when looked back upon in the light 
of his brother's glory. Of that period, Robert wrote a good deal at various times to 
various correspondents, when the world had become curious ; but as in the case of all 
such writings, he unconsciously mixes the past with the present — looks back on his 
ninth year with the eyes of his thirtieth. He tells us that he was by no means a favor- 
ite with anybody ; that though it cost the master some thrashings, " I made an excellent 
English scholar, and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in 
substantives, verbs, and particles." Also we are told that in the family resided a cer- 
tain old woman — Jenny Wilson by name, as research has discovered — who had the 
largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, 
etc., and that to the recital of these Robert gave attentive ear, unconsciously laying up 
material for future Tams-O-S/ianter, and Addresses to the Deil. As for books, he had 
procured the Life of Hannibal, and the History of Sir William Wallace ; the first 
of a classical turn, lent by Mr. Murdoch, the second, purely traditionary, the property of 
a neighboring blacksmith, constituting probably his entire secular library ; and in a 
letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he describes how the perusal of the latter moved him, — 

" In those boyish days, I remember in particular being struck with that part of 
Wallace's story where these lines occur : 

Syne to the Leglen wood when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat. 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a 
dozen miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm 
as ever pilgrim did to Loretto, and explored every den and dell where I could suppose 
my heroic countryman to have lodged." 

When Mr. Murdock left Mount Oliphant, the education of the family fell on the 
father, who, when the boys came in from labor on the edge of the wintry twilight, lit 
his candle and taught them arithmetic. He also when engaged in work with his sons, 
directed the conversation to improving subjects. He got books for them from a book- 




>MWP^ 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



XI 



societv in Ayr : among which are named Derham's Physico- and Astro-Theology ', and 
Ray's Wisdom of God. Stackhouse's History of the Bible was in the house, and from 
it Robert contrived to extract a considerable knowledge of ancient history. Mr. Mur- 
doch sometimes visited the family, and brought books with him. On one occasion he 
read Titus Andronicus aloud at Mount Oliphant, and Robert's pure taste rose in a 
passionate revolt against its coarse cruelties and unspiritual horrors. When about 
fourteen years of age, he and his brother Gilbert were sent "week about during a sum- 
mer quarter," to a parish-school two or three miles distant from the farm, to improve 
themselves in penmanship. Next year, about midsummer, Robert spent three weeks 
with his tutor Murdoch, who had established himself in Ayr. The first week was 
given to a careful revision of the English Grammar, the remaining fortnight was de- 
voted to French, and on his return he brought with him the Adventures of Telema- 
chus and a French Dictionary, and with these he used to work alone during his 
evenings. He also turned his attention to Latin, but does not seem to have made 
much progress therein, although in after life he could introduce a sentence or so of the 
ancient tongue to adorn his correspondence. By the time the family had left Mount 
Oliphant, he had torn the heart out of a good many books, among which were several 
theological works, some of a philosophical nature, a few novels, the Spectator, Shak- 
speare, Pope's Homer, and above all, the Works of Allan Ramsay. These, with the 
Bible, a collection of English songs, and a collection of letters, were almost the only 
books he was acquainted with when he broke out in literature. No great library cer- 
tainly, but he had a quick eye and ear, and all Ayrshire was an open page to him, filled 
with strange matter, which he only needed to read off into passionate love-song or 
blistering satire. 

In his sixteenth year the family removed from Mount Oliphant to Lochlea. Here 
Robert and Gilbert were employed regularly on the farm, and received from their father 
7/. per annum of wages. Up till now, Burns had led a solitary self-contained life, with 
no companionship save his own thoughts and what books he could procure, with no 
acquaintances save his father, his brother, and Mr. Murdoch. This seclusion was now 
about to cease. In his seventeenth year, " to give his manners a finish " he went to a 
country dancing school, — an important step in life for any young fellow, a specially 
important step for a youth of his years, heart, brain, and passion. In the Torbolton 
dancing school the outer world with its fascinations burst upon him. It was like attain- 
ing majority and freedom. It was like coming up to London from the provinces. Here 
he first felt the sweets of society, and could assure himself of the truthfulness of his 
innate sense of superiority. At the dancing school, he encountered other young rustics 
laudably ambitious of " brushing up their manners," and, what was of more consequence, 
he encountered their partners also. This was his first season, and he was as gay as a 
young man of fortune who had entered on his first London one. His days were spent 
in hard work, but the evenings were his own, and these he seems to have spent almost 
entirely in sweethearting on his own account, or on that of others. His brother tells us 
that he was almost constantly in love. His innamoratas were the freckled beauties who 
milked cows and hoed potatoes ; but his passionate imagination attired them with the 
most wonderful graces. He was Antony, and he found a Cleopatra — for whom the 
world were well lost — in every harvest-field. For some years onward he did not read 
much ; indeed, his fruitful reading, with the exception of Fergtissorfs Poems, of which 
hereafter, was accomplished by the time he was seventeen ; his leisure being occupied in 
making love to rustic maids, where his big black eyes could come into play. Perhaps, 
on the whole, looking to poetic outcome, he could not have employed himself to better 
purpose. 

He was now rapidly getting perilous cargo on board. The Torbolton dancing school 
introduced him to unlimited sweethearting, and his nineteenth summer, which he spent 
in the study of mensuration, at the school at Kirkoswald, made him acquainted with 
the interior of taverns, and with " scenes of swaggering riot." He also made the acquaint- 
ance of certain smugglers who frequented that bare and deeply-coved coast, and seems 
to have been attracted by their lawless ways and speeches. It is characteristic, that in 




Xll 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 




the midst of his studies, he was upset by the charms of a country girl who lived next 
door to the school. While taking the sun's altitude, he observed her walking in the 
adjoining garden, and Love put Trigonometry to flight. During his stay at Kirkoswald, 
he had read Shenstone and Thomson, and on his return home he maintained a literary 
correspondence with his schoolfellows, and pleased his vanity with the thought that he 
could turn a sentence with greater skill and neatness than any one of them. 

For some time it had been Burns's habit to take a small portion of land from his 
father for the purpose of raising flax ; and, as he had now some idea of settling in life, 
it struck him that if he could add to his farmer-craft the accomplishment of flax-dress- 
ing, it might not be unprofitable. He accordingly went to live with a relation of his 
mother's in Irvine — Peacock by name — who followed that business, and with him for 
some time he worked with diligence and success. But, while welcoming the New Year 
morning after a bacchanalian fashion, the premises took fire, and his schemes were laid 
waste. Just at this time, too — to complete his discomfiture — he had been jilted by a 
sweetheart, "who had pledged her soul to meet him in the field of matrimony." In 
almost all the foul weather which Burns encountered, a woman may be discovered flitting 
through it like a stormy petrel. His residence at Irvine was a loss, in a worldly point 
of view, but there he ripened rapidly, both spiritually and poetically. At Irvine, as at 
Kirkoswald, he made the acquaintance of persons engaged in contraband traffic, and he 
tells us that a chief friend of his " spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which, 
hitherto, I had regarded with horror. There his friendship did me a mischief." About 
this time, too, John Rankine — to whom he afterwards addressed several of his epistles 
— introduced him to St. Mary's Lodge, in Torbolton, and he became an enthusiastic 
Freemason. Of his mental states and intellectual progress, we are furnished with 
numerous hints. He was a member of a debating club at Torbolton, and the question 
for Hallowe'en still exists in his handwriting. It is as follows : " Suppose a young 
man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of two 
women, the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person, nor agreeable 
in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enough ; the 
other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behavior, but 
without any fortune: which of them shall he choose?" Not a bad subject for a collec- 
tion of clever rustics to sharpen their wits upon ! We may surmise that Burns found 
himself as much superior in debate to his companions at the Bachelor's Club as he had 
previously found himself superior to his Kirkoswald correspondents in letter-writing. 
The question for the Hallowe'en discussion is interesting mainly in so far as it indi- 
cates what kind of discussions were being at that time conducted in his own brain ; and 
also how habitually, then and afterwards, his thinking grew out of his personal condi- 
tion and surroundings. A question of this kind interested him more than whether, for 
instance, Cromwell deserved well of his country. Neither now nor afterwards did he 
trouble himself much about far-removed things. He cared for no other land than Cale- 
donia. He did not sing of Helen's beauty, but of the beauty of the country girl he 
loved. His poems were as much the product of his own farm and its immediate neigh- 
borhood, as were the clothes and shoes he wore, the oats and turnips he grew. Another 
aspect of him may be found in the letter addressed to his father three days before the 
Irvine flax-shop went on fire. It is infected with a magnificent hypochondriasis. It is 
written as by a Bolingbroke — by a man who had played for a mighty stake, and who, 
when defeated, could smile gloomily and turn fortune's slipperiness into parables. And 
all the while the dark philosophy and the rolling periods flowed from the pen of a 
country lad, whose lodgings are understood to have cost a shilling per week, and 
"whose meal was nearly out, but who was going to borrow till he got more." One 
other circumstance attending his Irvine life deserves notice — his falling in with a copy 
of Fergussoris Poems. For some time previously he had not written much, but Fer- 
gusson stirred him with emulation, and on his removal to Mossgiel, shortly afterwards, 
he in a single winter poured forth more immortal verse — measured by mere quantity — 
than almost any poet in the same space of time, either before his day or after. 

Three months before the death of the elder Burness, Robert and Gilbert rented the 







BIO GRA PHICA L PRE FA CE. 



Xlll 



farm of Mossgiel in the parish of Mauchline. The farm consisted of 119 acres, and 
its rent was 90/. After the father's death the whole family removed thither. Burns 
was now twenty-four years of age, and come to his full strength of limb, brain, and 
passion. As a young farmer on his own account, he mixed more freely than hitherto 
in the society of the country-side, and in a more independent fashion. He had the 
black eyes which Sir Walter saw afterwards in Edinburgh and remembered to have 
'•glowed.*' He had wit, which convulsed the Masonic meetings, and a rough-and-ready 
sarcasm with which he flayed his foes. Besides all this, his companionship at Irvine 
had borne its fruits. He had become the father of an illegitimate child, had been 
rebuked for his transgression before the congregation, and had, in revenge, written 
witty and wicked verses on the reprimand and its occasion, to his correspondent Ran- 
kine — verses which, to his credit be said, he did not give to the world. And when we 
note here that he came into fierce collision with at least one section of the clergy of his 
country, all the conditions have been indicated which went to make up Burns the man, 
and Burns the poet. 

Ayrshire was at this period a sort of theological bear-garden. The more important 
clergymen of the district were divided into New Lights and Auld Lights ; they 
wrangled in Church Courts, they wrote and harangued against each other ; and, as the 
adherents of the one party or the other made up almost the entire population, and as 
in such disputes Scotchmen take an extraordinary interest, the county was set very 
prettily by the ears. The Auld Light divines were strict Calvinists, laying great 
stress on the doctrine of Justification by Faith, and inclined generally to exercise spir- 
itual authority after a somewhat despotic fashion. The New Light divines were less 
dogmatic, less inclined to religious gloom and acerbity, and they possessed, on the 
whole, more literature and knowledge of the world. Burns became deeply interested 
in the theological warfare, and at once ranged himself on the liberal side. From his 
being a poet this was to have been expected, but various circumstances concurred in 
making his partisanship more than usually decided. The elder Burness was, in his 
ways of thinking, a New Light, and his religious notions he impressed carefully on his 
children — his son consequently, in taking up the ground he did, was acting in accord- 
ance with received ideas and with early training. Besides, Burns's most important 
friends at this period — Mr. Gavin Hamilton, from whom he held his farm on a sub- 
lease, and Mr. Aitken, to whom the Cotter 's Saturday Night was dedicated — were in 
the thick of the contest on the New Light side. Mr. Hamilton was engaged in per- 
sonal dispute with the Rev. Mr. Auld — the clergyman who rebuked Burns — and Mr. 
Aitken had the management of the case of Dr. MacGill who was cited before the local 
Church Courts, on a charge of heterodoxy. Hamilton and Aitken held a certain posi- 
tion in the county — they were full of talent, they were hospitable, they were witty in 
themselves, and could appreciate wit in others. They were of higher social rank than 
Burns's associates had hitherto been, they had formed a warm friendship for him, and 
it was not unnatural that he should become their ally, and serve their cause with what 
weapons he had. Besides, wit has ever been a foe to the Puritan. Cavaliers fight 
with song and jest, as well as with sword and spear, and sometimes more effectively. 
Hudibras and Worcester are flung into opposite scales, and make the balance even. 
From training and temperament, Burns was an enemy of the Auld Light section ; con- 
scious of his powers, and burning to distinguish himself, he searched for an opportu- 
nity as anxiously as ever did Irishman for a head at Donnybrook, and when he found 
it, he struck, without too curiously inquiring into the rights and wrongs of the matter. 
At Masonic meetings, at the tables of his friends, at fairs, at gatherings round church- 
doors on Sundays, he argued, talked, joked, flung out sarcasms — to be gathered up, 
repeated, and re-repeated — and maddened in every way the wild-boar of orthodoxy by 
the javelins of epigram. The satirical opportunity at length came, and Burns was 
not slow to take advantage of it. Two Auld Light divines, the Rev. John Russel, 
and the Rev. Alex. Moodie, quarrelled about their respective parochial bound. 
and the question came before the Presbytery for settlement. In the court — when 
Burns was present — the reverend gentlemen indulged in coarse personal altercation, 








XIV 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 




and the Twa Herds was the result. Copies of this satire were handed about, and for 
the first time Burns tasted how sweet a thing was applause. The circle of his 
acquaintances extended itself, and he could now call several clergymen of the moder- 
ate party his friends. The Twa Herds was followed by the tremendous satire of 
Holy Willie' 's Prayer, and by the Holy Fair — the last equally witty, equally familiar 
in its allusions to sacred things, but distinguished by short poetic touches, by descrip- 
tions of character and manners, unknown in Scottish poetry since the days of Dunbar. 
These pieces caused great stir ; friends admired and applauded ; foes hated and 
reviled. His brother Gilbert spoke words of caution which, had Burns heeded, it 
would have been better for his fame. But to check such thunder in mid-volley was, 
perhaps, more than could have been expected of poetic flesh and blood. 

Burns interested himself deeply in the theological disputes of his district, but he 
did not employ himself entirely in writing squibs against that section of the clergy 
which he disliked. He had already composed Mailie's Elegy and the Epistle to Davie 
— the first working in an element of humor ennobled by moral reflection, a peculiar 
manner in which he lived to produce finer specimens ; the second almost purely didac- 
tic, and which he hardly ever surpassed — and as he was now in the full flush of inspi- 
ration, every other day produced its poem. He did not go far a-field for his subjects ; 
he found sufficient inspiration in his daily life and the most familiar objects. The 
schoolmaster of Torbolton had established a shop for groceries, and having a liking 
for the study of medicine, he took upon himself the airs of a physician, and advertised 
that " advice would be given in common disorders, at the shop, gratis." On one occa- 
sion, at the Torbolton Mason-lodge, when Burns was present, the schoolmaster made 
a somewhat ostentatious display of his medical acquirements. To a man so easily 
moved as Burns, this hint was sufficient. On his way home from the Lodge the terri- 
ble grotesquerie of Death and Dr. Hombrook floated through his mind, and on the 
following afternoon the verses were repeated to Gilbert. Not long after, in a Sunday 
afternoon walk, he recited to Gilbert the Cotters Saturday Night, who described him- 
self as electrified by the recital — as indeed he might well be. To Gilbert also the 
Address to the Deil was repeated while the two brothers were engaged with their carts 
in bringing home coals for family use. At this time, too, his poetic Epistles to 
Lapraik and others were composed — pieces which for verve and hurry and gush of 
versification seem to have been written at a sitting, yet for curious felicities of expres- 
sion might have been under the file for years. It was Burns's habit, Mr. Chambers 
tells us, to keep his MSS. in the drawer of a little deal table in the garret at Mossgiel ; 
and his youngest sister was wont, when he went out to afternoon labor, to slip up quietly 
and hunt for the freshly written verses. Indeed, during the winter of 1785-86 Burns 
wrote almost all the poems which were afterwards published in the Kilmarnock edition. 

But at this time he had other matters on hand than the writing of verses. The farm 
at Mossgiel was turning out badly ; the soil was sour and wet, and from mistakes in the 
matter of seed, the crops were failures. His prospects were made still darker by his 
relation with Jean Armour. He had made the acquaintance of this young woman at a 
penny wedding in Mauchline, shortly after he went to reside at Mossgiel, and the ac- 
quaintanceship, on his part at least, soon ripened into passion. In the spring of 1786, 
when baited with farming difficulties, he learned that Jean was about to become a 
mother, and the intelligence came on him like a thunder-clap. Urged by a very proper 
feeling, he resolved to make the unhappy young woman all the reparation in his power, 
and accordingly he placed in her hands a written acknowledgment of marriage — a 
document sufficient by the law of Scotland to legalize their connection, though after 
a somewhat irregular fashion. When Mr. Armour heard of Jean's intimacy with 
Burns and its miserable result, he was moved with indignation, and he finally persuaded 
her to deliver into his hands Burns's written paper, and this document he destroyed, 
although, for any thing he knew, he destroyed along with it his daughter's good fame. 
Burns's feelings at this crisis may be imagined. Pride, love, anger, despair, strove for 
mastery in his breast. Weary of his country, almost of his existence, and seeing ruin 
staring him in the face at Mossgiel, he resolved to seek better fortune and solace for a 



£ 




BIO GRA PIIICA L PRE FA CE. 



XV 



lacerated heart, in exile. He accordingly arranged with Dr. Douglas to act as book- 
keeper on his estate in Jamaica. In order to earn the passage money, he was advised 
to publish the wonderful verses then lying in the drawer of the deal table at Mossgiel. 
This advice jumped pleasantly enough with his own wishes, and without loss of time 
he issued his subscription papers and began to prepare for the press. He knew that 
his poems possessed merit ; he felt that applause would sweeten his " good night." It 
is curious to think of Burns's wretched state — in a spiritual as well as a pecuniary 
sense — at this time, and of the centenary the other year which girdled the planet as 
with a blaze of festal fire, and a roll of triumphal drums ! Curious to think that the 
volume which Scotland regards as the most precious in her possession should have been 
published to raise nine pounds to carry its author into exile! 

All the world has heard of Highland Mary — in life a maid-servant in the family 
of Mr. Hamilton, after death to be remembered with Dante's Beatrice and Petrarch's 
Laura. How Burns and Mary became acquainted we have little means of knowing — 
indeed the whole relationship is somewhat obscure — but Burns loved her as he loved 
no other woman, and her memory is preserved in the finest expression of his love and 
grief. Strangely enough, it seems to have been in the fierce rupture between himself 
and Jean that this white flower of love sprang up, sudden in its growth, brief in its 
passion and beauty. It was arranged that the lovers should become man and wife, and 
that Mary should return to her friends to prepare for her wedding. Before her depar- 
ture there was a farewell scene. " On the second Sunday of May," Burns writes to 
Mr. Thomson, after an historical fashion which has something touching in it, " in a 
sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr the interview took place." The lovers met 
and plighted solemn troth. According to popular statement, they stood on either side 
of a brook, they dipped their hands in the water, exchanged Bibles — and parted. Mary 
died at Greenock and was buried in a dingy churchyard, hemmed by narrow streets — 
beclanged now by innumerable hammers, and within a stone's throw of passing steam- 
ers. Information of her death was brought to Burns at Mossgiel ; he went to the win- 
dow to read the letter, and the family noticed that on a sudden his face changed. He 
went out without speaking ; they respected his grief and were silent. On the whole 
matter Burns remained singularly reticent ; but years after, from a sudden geyser of 
impassioned song, we learn that through all that time she had never been forgotten. 

Jean was approaching her confinement, and having heard that Mr. Armour was 
about to resort to legal measures to force him to maintain his expected progeny — an 
impossibility in his present circumstances — Burns left Mauchline and went to reside 
in the neighborhood of Kilmarnock, where, in gloomy mood enough, he corrected his 
proof-sheets. The volume appeared about the end of July, and, thanks to the exer- 
tions of his friends, the impression was almost immediately exhausted. Its success 
was decided. All Ayrshire rang with its praise. His friends were of course anxious 
that he should remain in Scotland, and as they possessed some influence, he lingered 
in Ayrshire, loath to depart, hoping that something would turn up, but quite undecided 
as to the complexion and nature of the desired something. Wronged as he considered 
himself to have been by the Armour family, he was still conscious of a lingering affec- 
tion for Jean. The poems having made a conquest of Ayrshire began to radiate out on 
every side. Professor Dugald Stewart, then resident at Catrine, had a copy of the 
poems, and Dr. Blair, who was on a visit to the professor, had his attention drawn to 
them, and expressed the warmest admiration. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop on opening the 
book had been electrified by the Cotter's Saturday Night, as Gilbert had been before 
her, and immediately sent an express to Burns at Mossgiel with a letter of praise and 
thanks. All this was pleasant enough, but it did not materially mend the situation. 
Burns could not live on praise alone, and accordingly, so soon as he could muster nine 
guineas from the sale of his book, he took a steerage passage in a vessel which was ex- 
pected to sail from Greenock at the end of September. During the month of August 
he seems to have employed himself in collecting subscriptions, and taking farewell of 
his friends. Burns was an enthusiastic Mason, and we can imagine that his last meet- 
ing with the Torbolton Lodge would be a thing to remember. It was remembered, we 









XVI BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 

learn from Mr. Chambers, by a surviving brother, John Lees. John said " that Burns 
came in a pair of buckskins, out of which he would always pull the other shilling for the 
other bowl, till it was five in the morning. An awfu' night that:'' Care left outside 
the door, we can fancy how the wit would flash, and the big black eyes glow, on such an 
occasion ! 

The first edition of his poems being nearly exhausted, his friends encouraged him to 
produce a second forthwith ; but on application, it was found that the Kilmarnock 
printer declined to undertake the risk, unless the price of the paper was advanced 
. beforehand. This outlay Burns was at the time unable to afford. On hearing of the 
circumstance, his friend Mr. Ballantyne offered to advance the money, but urged him 
to proceed to Edinburgh and publish the second edition there. This advice commended 
itself to Burns's ambition, but for a while he remained irresolute. Jean, meanwhile, 
had been confined of twins, and from one of his letters, we learn that the " feelings of 
a father " kept him lingering in Ayrshire. News of the success of his poems came in 
upon him on every side. Dr. Lawrie, minister of London, to whose family he had 
recently paid a visit, had forwarded a copy of the poems, with a sketch of the author's 
life, to Dr. Thomas Blacklock, and had received a letter from that gentleman, express- 
ing the warmest admiration of the writer's genius, and urging that a second and larger 
edition should at once be proceeded with ; adding, that " its intrinsic merits, and the 
exertions of the author's friends, might give the volume a more universal circulation 
than any thing of the kind which has been published in my time." This letter, so full 
of encouragement, Dr. Lawrie carried at once to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and Mr. Hamil- 
ton lost no time in placing it in Burns's hands. The poems had been favorably 
reviewed in the Edinburgh Magazine for October, and this number of the periodical, 
so interesting to all its inmates, would, no doubt, find its way to Mossgiel. Burns 
seems to have made up his mind to proceed to Edinburgh about the 18th November, a 
step which was warmly approved by his brother Gilbert, and when his resolution was 
taken, he acted upon it with promptitude. 

He reached Edinburgh on the 28th November, 1786, and took up his residence with 
John Richmond, a Mauchline acquaintance, who occupied a room in Baxter's Close, 
Lawnmarket, for which he paid three shillings a week. Burns for some time after his 
arrival seems to have had no special object ; he wandered about the city, looking down 
from the Castle on Princes Street ; haunting Holyrood Palace and Chapel ; standing 
with cloudy eyelid and hands meditatively knit beside the grave of Ferguson ; and from 
the Canongate glancing up with interest on the quaint tenement in which Allan Ramsay 
kept his shop, wrote his poems, and curled the wigs of a departed generation of Scots- 
men. At the time of Burns's arrival, the Old Town towered up from Holyrood to the 
Castle, picturesque, smoke-wreathed ; and when the darkness came, its climbing tiers of 
lights and cressets were reflected in the yet existing Nor'Loch ; and the gray uniform 
streets and squares of the New Town — from which the visitor to-day can look down 
on low wooded lands, the Forth, and Fife beyond — were only in course of erection. 
The literary society of the time was brilliant but exotic, like the French lily or the Eng- 
lish rose. For a generation and more the Scottish philosophers, historians, and poets 
had brought their epigram from France as they brought their claret, and their humor 
from England as they brought their parliamentary intelligence. Blair of the Grave 
was a Scottish Dr. Young ; Home of Douglas a Scottish Otway ; Mackenzie a Scottish 
Addison; and Dr. Blair — so far as his criticism was concerned — a sort of Scottish 
Dr. Johnson. The Scotch brain was genuine enough ; the faculty was native, but it 
poured itself into foreign moulds. The literary grandees wore decorations — honestly 
earned — but no one could discover amongst them the Order of the Thistle. These men, 
too, had done their work, and the burly, black-eyed, humorous, passionate ploughman 
came up amongst them, the herald of a new day and a new order of things ; the first 
king of a new literary empire, in which he was to be succeeded by Walter Scott, — then 
a lad of sixteen, engrossing deeds in his father's office, with the Tweed murmuring in 
his ears, and Melrose standing in the light of his opening imagination — with Hogg, 
Gait, Wilson, Lockhart, and the rest, for his satraps and lieutenants. 




BIO GRA PHICA L PRE FA CE. 



XVll 



Burns's arrival in Edinburgh was an historical event, far more important in itself, 
and in its issues, than either he or than any other person had suspected. 

He soon got to work, however. In Ayrshire he had made the acquaintance of Mr. 
Dalrymple of Orangefield; that gentleman introduced him to his brother-in-law, the 
Earl of Glencairn, then resident in Edinburgh ; and his lordship introduced him to 
William Creech, the leading publisher in the city, at whose shop the wits were wont 
to congregate. Creech undertook the publication of the new edition ; and, through the 
influence of Glencairn, it was arranged that the Caledonian Hunt should subscribe for a 
hundred copies, and that a guinea should be paid for each. Meantime, Mr. Mackenzie, 
in the Lounger, of date 9th December, wrote a glowing criticism on the poems, 
which smoothed a way for them into the politer circles. The new edition, dedicated to 
the Caledonian Hunt, appeared on the 21st April, 1787, containing a list of subscribers' 
names extending to more than thirty-eight pages. The Hunt, as we have seen, took 
one hundred copies, and several gentlemen and noblemen subscribed liberally — one 
taking twenty copies, a second forty copies, a third forty-two copies. The Scots Col- 
leges in France and Spain are also set down as subscribers among individual names. 
This was splendid success, and Burns felt it. He was regarded as a phenomenon ; 
was asked hither and thither, frequently from kindness and pure admiration — often, 
however, to be merely talked with and stared at — this he felt too, and his vengeful 
spleen, well kept under on the whole, corroded his heart like a fierce acid. During the 
winter preceding the publication of the second edition, he was feted and caressed. He 
was patronized by the Duchess of Gordon. Lord Glencairn was his friend, so also 
was Henry Erskine. He was frequently at Lord Monboddo's, where he admired the 
daughter's beauty more than the father's philosophy ; he breakfasted with Dr. Blair ; 
he walked in the mornings to the Braid Hills with Professor Dugald Stewart ; and he 
frequently escaped from these lofty circles to the Masonic Lodge, or to the supper- 
tables of convivial lawyers, where he felt no restraint, where he could be wounded by 
no patronage, and where he flashed and coruscated, and became the soul of the revel. 
Fashionable and lettered saloons were astonished by Burns's talk ; but the interior of 
taverns — and in Edinburgh tavern life was all but universal at the time — saw the 
brighter and more constant blaze. The sudden change of fortune — so different from 
his old life in the Irvine flax heckling-shop, or working the sour Mossgiel lands, or the 
post of a book-keeper in Jamaica, which he looked forward to, and so narrowly escaped 
— was not without its giddy and exciting pleasures, and for pleasure of every kind 
Burns had the keenest relish. Now and again, too, in the earlier days of his Edinburgh 
life, when success wore its newest gloss, and applause had a novel sweetness, a spirit 
of exhilaration escaped him, not the less real that it was veiled in a little scornful exag- 
geration. In writing to Mr. Hamilton, he says, " For my own affairs, I am in a fair 
way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis, or John Bunyan ; and you may 
expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events in the Poor 
Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with Black Monday and the Battle of Bothwell 
Bridge." In any case, if he did feel flattered by the attention paid him by society, he had 
time to cool and strike a balance in his friend Richmond's garret in the Lawnmarket — 
where he slept, Mr. Lockhart informs us, during the whole of that glittering and exciting 
winter. 

Hitherto, the world had seen but little of Burns personally. It had heard his voice 
as of one singing behind the scenes, and been moved to admiration ; and when he pre- 
sented himself in the full blaze of the footlights, he became the cynosure of every eye, 
and the point on which converged every critical opera-glass. Edinburgh and Burns 
confronted each other. Edinburgh "took stock" of Burns, Burns "took stock" of 
Edinburgh, and it is interesting to note the mutual impressions. From all that can 
be gathered from Dr. Blair, Professors Dugald Stewart, Walker, and others, Burns 
acquitted himself in his new circumstances admirably. He never lost head, he never 
let a word of exultation escape him, his deportment was everywhere respectful yet self- 
possessed ; he talked well and freely — for he knew he was expected to talk — but he 
did not engross conversation. His "deferential " address won his way to female favor : 





#a 






XVlll 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 





and the only two breaches of decorum which are recorded of him in society, may be 
palliated by his probable ignorance of his host's feelings and vanities on the first occa- 
sion, and on the second by the peculiar provocation he received. Asked in Dr. Blair's 
house, and in Dr. Blair's presence, from which of the city preachers he had derived the 
greatest gratification, it would have been fulsome had Burns said, turning to the Doctor, 
" I consider you, Sir, the greatest pulpit orator I have ever heard." The question was 
a most improper one in the circumstances, and if the company were thrown into a state 
of foolish embarrassment, and the host's feelings wounded by Burns giving the palm to 
his colleague — then the company were simply toadies of the sincerer sort, and the host 
less skilled in the world's ways than Burns, and possessed of less natural good-breeding. 
In the second instance when, in a sentence more remarkable for force than grace, he 
extinguished a clergyman who abused Gray's Elegy, but who could not quote a line of 
it correctly, he merely gave way to a swift and not ungenerous instinct — for which he 
was, no doubt, sorry the next moment. He cannot be defended altogether, although 
even here one can hardly help rendering him a sneaking approval. Bad language at a 
breakfast-table, and addressed to a clergyman, is improper, — but, on the other hand, 
no clergyman has a right to be a bore at a breakfast-table. Indeed, your critical and 
blundering bore, whether clergyman or no — all the more sedulously, perhaps, if he be 
a clergyman — should keep out of the way of a Burns. Evil is certain to befall him if 
he do not. It is pretty evident, however, from the records left, that Dr. Blair, Dugald 
Stewart, and others, did not really know Burns, did not, in fact, take much pains to 
know him. They never met him on frank, cordial, and brotherly terms. They looked 
on him curiously, as one looks on a strange insect, through a microscope. From their 
learned heights they regarded him as on the plain beneath. They were ever ready with 
advice, and counselled him to stand armed at points where no danger could possibly 
appear. Of all the good things in the world, advice is practically the least useful. If 
a man is fool enough to need advice, the chances are that he will be fool enough to 
resent it when given, or neglect it when the critical moment arrives. The Edinburgh 
literati' did not quite well know what to make of Burns. He was a new thing under the 
sun, and they could not fall back on precedent. They patronized him kindly, heartily, 
for the most part — but still it was patronage. And it has come about that, in the 
lapse of seventy years, the relations of the parties have been quite reversed — as in dis- 
solving views the image of Burns has come out in bolder relief and brighter colors, while 
his patrons have lost outline, have dwindled, and become shadowy. Dr. Blair and 
Lord Monboddo will be remembered mainly by the circumstance that the one invited 
Burns to his evening entertainments, and the other to his breakfasts. Burns has kept 
that whole literary generation from oblivion, and from oblivion he will keep it yet 
a while. 

On the other hand, it is quite evident, that although Burns, during that brilliant 
winter, masked himself skilfully, he bore an inward smart. He felt that he was 
regarded as meteoric, a wonder ; that he did not fit into existing orders of things, and 
that in Edinburgh he had no familiar and received status. Consequently, he was never 
sure of his ground ; and while, for the most part, careful to offend no one, he was pas- 
sionately jealous of condescension and suspicious of personal affront. The men amongst | 
whom he mingled had their positions in the world, and in these positions they had the 
ease of use and wont. Their couches were made soft by the down of customariness. 
They had all the social proprieties and traditions at their backs. From the past, they 
flowered out socially and professionally. With Burns every thing was different. He 
had in Edinburgh, so to speak, neither father nor mother. He had neither predecessor 
nor antecedent. He could roll in no groove made smooth by custom ; and hence it is, 
when in bitter mood, we find him making such extravagant claims for genius against 
dull rich men, or dull well-born men, or semi-dull men, who had been successful in the 
professions. He knew that genius was his sole claim to the notice of the brilliant per- 
sonages he met night after night ; that but for it he was a small Ayrshire farmer, whom 
not one of those people would invite to their tables, or bid " Good-day " to, if they met 
him on a country road. It was admirable in Scott to waive, as he continually did, all 



fcs 



19BL 



BIO GRA PHICAL PRE FA CE. 



XIX 



claim to special regard on account of his genius, but it was easy for Scott to do this. 
Scott would have dined well every day of his life, he would have lived with cultivated 
and refined people, and would have enjoyed a fair share of social distinction, although 
he had never written Marmion or Ivanhoe. But Burns's sole title to notice was genius 
— take that from him, he was instantly denuded of his singing robes, and left in the 
hodden gray of the farmer, with a splash of mud on his top-boots. In his commonplace 
book — a very pool of Marah — which he kept at Edinburgh, there is an entry which 
brings all this out in a clear light. 

•• There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin 
than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere 
with the reception which a mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and 
futile distinctions of fortune, meets. Imagine a man of abilities, his heart glowing 
with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honor to whom honor 
is due ; he meets at a great man's table a Squire Something, or a Sir Somebody ; he 
knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good 
wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, 
whose abilities would scarcely have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not 
worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son 
of genius and poverty ! 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
respect, and love him. He showed so much attention, engrossing attention, one day, to 
the only blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder-pate, 
and myself), that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous 
defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevolently good at parting. God 
bless him ! though I should never see him more, I shall love him until my dying day ! 
I am pleased to think I am so capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably 
deficient in some other virtues. 

•• With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect him with humble venera- 
tion ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or, still more, when he 
descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conversation, my heart 
overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcass of 
greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to 
myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either." 

A man like Burns, living at a period when literature had not to any extent become 
a profession, could not find his place amongst the recognized forces of the world — was 
doomed forever to be an outsider — and therein lay the tragedy of his life. He was 
continually making comparisons between his own evil fortune and the good fortune of 
others. Proud, suspicious, swift to take offence, when his amour propre was wounded, 
he was apt to salve it in the company of revellers whom he could meet on equal terms, 
and in whose society he could take out his revenge in sarcasm. As regards mere brain, 
he does not seem to have entertained any remarkable respect for the Edinburgh men of 
letters. He considered he had met as much intellectual capacity — unpolished and in 
the rough — in Torbolton debating societies, Mauchline Masonic meetings, and at the 
tables of the writers of Kilmarnock and Ayr. He admitted, however, that his residence 
in Edinburgh had brought him in contact with something new — a refined and accom- 
plished woman. The admission is important, and meeting it, one fancies for a moment 
that one has caught some sort of explanation of his future life. What might have 
been the result had Burns secured a career in which his fancy and intellect could have 
exercised themselves, and a wife who to affection added refinement and accomplish- 
ment, we may surmise, but cannot tell. A career he never secured; and on his return 
to Ayrshire, in passionate blindness, he forged chains for himself which he could not 
break — which it would have been criminal in him to have attempted to break. 

From Burns's correspondence while in Edinburgh we can see in what way he regarded 
his own position and prospects. He admitted that applause was pleasant; he knew 
that, as a poet, he possessed some merit, but he constantly expressed his conviction 
that much of his success arose from the novelty of a poet appearing in his rank of 




XX 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 










life; and he congratulates himself on the circumstance that — let literary reputation 
wax or wane — he had "an independence at the plough-tail" to fall back upon. He 
foresaw from the beginning that Edinburgh could be nothing more than a striking 
episode in his life, and that he was fated to return to the rural shades. Early in the 
year, he had some conversation with Mr. Patrick Miller, relative to his becoming a 
tenant on that gentleman's estate at Dalswinton, and had promised to run down to 
Dumfriesshire and look at the lands some time in the following May. That Mr. 
Miller was anxious to serve Burns, seems to have been generally known in Edinburgh, 
for in Dr. Blair's letter, dated on 4th May, 1787, in answer to a note written by Burns 
on the previous day, intimating that he was about to leave town, the Doctor supposes 
that he is " going down to Dalswinton to look at some of Mr. Miller's farms." Before 
his return, Burns did intend to look at these farms, but at the moment farming was 
not the principal business in hand. He, in company with his young friend Ainslie, 
was on the wing for the South of Scotland — a district which was calling him with a 
hundred voices of tradition and ballad. On the day before starting, he sent Mr. 
Johnson, editor of the Scot's Musical Museum, a cordial letter, for he had entered 
with enthusiasm into that gentleman's work, and already written for it one or two 
songs — preliminary drops of the plenteous summer-shower which has kept so many 
secret places of the heart fresh and green. 

The companions left Edinburgh on horseback on the 5th May. They visited Dunse, 
Coldstream, Kelso, Jedburgh, Melrose, Dryburgh, and Yarrow — Burns scattering 
jokes and epigrams all the way. About the middle of the month Ainslie returned to 
Edinburgh, and Burns then crossed into England, saw Hexham and Newcastle, and 
returned home by Carlisle and Dumfries. From Dumfries he went to Dalswinton, 
looked over the estate, but did not seem much enamoured of its condition. He, how- 
ever, arranged to meet Mr. Miller in August. He then came by Sanquhar to Mauchline, 
and dropped in upon his family unannounced. His meeting with these reticent hearts 
must be left to imagination. He went out from them obscure, he returned to them, 
illustrious, with a nimbus around his head. At home he renewed acquaintanceship 
with old friends, and found that Mr. Armour, who had treated him coldly in the day of 
his poverty and obscurity, was now inclined to regard him with a favorable eye — a 
circumstance which seems to have kindled Burns into unreasonable rage. " If any 
thing," he writes to his correspondent Smith, " had been wanting to disgust me com- 
pletely with the Armour family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it." 
The proud spirit which rankled in Edinburgh seems to have rankled no less bitterly in 
Ayrshire. A few days after he wrote to Mr. William Nicol, master of the High 
School, Edinburgh — then and afterwards one of his chiefest friends : — "I never, my 
friend, thought mankind very capable of any thing generous ; but the stateliness of the 
patricians in Edinburgh, and the civility of my plebeian brethren (who perhaps for- 
merly eyed me askance) since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit 
altogether with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually 
about with me, in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the 
intrepid, unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
ship, in that great personage, Satan." At this precise period, it is somewhat hard to 
understand whence came the bitterness which wells up in almost every letter which 
Burns wrote. He was famous, he was even comparatively rich, but he had an eye 
which, constitutionally, regarded the seamy side of things. Probably, in no possible 
combination of fortunate circumstances could Burns have been a contented and happy 
man. He had Ulysses' " hungry heart," which could be satisfied with no shore, how- 
ever green and pleasant, which must needs sail beyond the sunset. While residing at 
Mauchline, he accidentally met Jean, and affectionate intimacy was renewed, as if no 
anger or bitterness had ever estranged them. 

Towards the end of June he went alone to the West Highlands, without any appar- 
ent motive, if not drawn by the memory of Mary Campbell. Of his movements in this 
trip we have no very precise information. At Inverary, where he could find accom- 
modation neither in castle nor inn, he left an epigram which has become famous. In 




BIO GRA PHICA L PRE FA CE. 



XXI 



a letter to Mr. J. Smith — a fair specimen of his more familiar epistolary style — dated 
30th June, we have some slight information respecting his doings, and a description of 
certain " high jinks " in the North, in which he was an actor. Although the letter is 
dated as above, it does not state at what place it was written — Burns, perhaps, wish- 
ing to keep his secret. 

'• On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable mansion we fell in with a 
merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. Our dancing 
was none of the French or English insipid formal movements ; the ladies sung Scotch 
songs like angels, at intervals ; then we flew at ' Bab at the Bowster,' ' Tullochgorum,' 
' Loch Erroch Side,' etc., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or crows prognosti- 
cating a storm on a hairst day. When the dear lassies left us, we ranged round the 
bowl to the good-fellow hour of six ; except a few minutes that we went out to pay our 
devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top of Ben Lomond. 
We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl, each man a full glass in his 
hand ; and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's 
prophecies, I suppose. After a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we pro- 
ceeded to spend the day on Loch Lomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. 
We dined at another good fellow's house, and consequently pushed the bottle ; when 
we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves ' No vera fou, but gaylie yet.' 
My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by came a Highlandman 
at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of 
iron or leather. We scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, 
whip and spur. My companions, though seemingly gayly mounted, fell sadly astern ; 
but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past the High- 
landman, in spite of all his efforts with the hair-halter. Just as I was passing him, 
Donald wheeled his horse as if to cross before me to mar my progress, when down 
came his horse, and threw his breekless rider in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny 
Geddes over all, and my hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny 
Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence that matters were not so bad as 
might have been expected ; so I came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough 
resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just 
as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall 
somewhere have a farm soon." 

Whatever motive may have induced Burns to visit the West Highlands, he returned 
to Mossgiel somewhat shaken by the escapade related above. During the ensuing 
month he wrote his autobiographical sketch to Dr. Moore, and on the 7th August he 
returned to Edinburgh to settle business matters with his publisher, and to arrange 
other excursions through districts of the country in which he had a poetic interest. 

Near the close of August, Burns and Nicol started on a Northern tour. They went 
by Falkirk and Stirling, visited the field of Bannockburn, and on their return to Stir- 
ling, Burns, with a diamond which he had recently purchased — the most unfortunate 
of all his investments, as it turned out — scribbled certain perilous verses on a window- 
pane of the inn. They then struck into Perthshire, admired the Falls of Moness, where 
Burns wrote The Birks of Aberfeldy ; visited Blair, the seat of the Duke of Athole, 
where they were hospitably entertained, and where Burns met his future patron, Mr. 
Graham of Fintry, and narrowly missed meeting Mr. Dundas — a piece of ill-fortune 
which his biographers agree in lamenting. The travellers then proceeded to Inverness, 
went to Culloden, spent some time at the ruined cathedral at Elgin ; crossed the Spey, 
and visited the Duke of Gordon — which visit was cut short by an ebullition of wounded 
pride on the part of N'icol. From Castle Gordon they came by Banff to Aberdeen ; 
Burns then crossed into Kincardineshire — of which county his father was a native — 
and spent some time in hunting up his relations there. He then went to Montrose, 
where he met his cousin, Mr. James Burness, and returned to Edinburgh by Perth and 
Dundee. 

In the beginning of October, according to Mr. Chambers, — for there seems to be a 





XX11 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 




little obscurity as to date — Burns, accompanied by Dr. Adair, set out on a visit to Sir 
William Murray of Ochtertyre, and passing through Stirling, he broke the pane in the 
inn on which he had inscribed the treasonable lines. Unhappily, however, he could 
not by this means put them out of existence, as they had been widely copied and circu- 
lated, and were alive in many memories. At Ochtertyre he spent one or two pleasant 
days ; and while in the neighborhood, he took the opportunity of visiting Mrs. Bruce 
of Clackmannan, who was in possession of the helmet and sword of the Bruce, and 
with the latter she conferred on the poet and his guide the honor of knighthood, 
remarking as she did so, that she had a better right to give the title than some people. 
He returned to Edinburgh by Kinross and Queensferry, and while at Dunfermline 
some circumstances took place, trivial in themselves, but important as exhibiting what 
rapid changes took place in the weather of the poet's mind. 

"At Dunfermline," says Dr. Adair, "we visited the ruined abbey and the abbey 
church, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted the cutty-stool, or 
stool of repentance, assuming the character of a penitent for fornication, while Burns 
from the pulpit addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied from 
that which had been delivered to himself in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the seat of shame together. 

" In the churchyard two broad flagstones marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for 
whose memory Burns had more than common veneration. He knelt and kissed the 
stone with sacred fervor, and heartily execrated the worse than Gothic neglect of 
the first of Scottish heroes." 

Burns was now resident in St. James's Square, in the house of William Cruickshank, 
who was, like Nicol, connected with the Edinburgh High School. His chief business 
was the arrangement of publishing matters with Creech, and he was anxious to come 
to some definite conclusion with Mr. Miller regarding a farm at Dalswinton. On his 
return from Ochtertyre he wrote that gentleman in practical terms enough : " I want 
to be a farmer in a small farm, about a plough-gang, in a pleasant country, under the 
auspices of a good landlord. I have no foolish notion of being a tenant on easier terms 
than another. To find a farm where one can live at all is not easy. I only mean living 
soberly, like an old-style farmer, and joining personal industry. The banks of the 
Nith are as sweet poetic ground as any I ever saw ; and besides, sir, 'tis but justice to 
the feelings of my own heart, and the opinion of my best friends, to say that I would 
wish to call you landlord sooner than any landed gentleman I know. These are my 
views and wishes ; and in whatever way you think best to lay out your farms, I shall 
be happy to rent one of them. I shall certainly be able to ride to Dalswinton about 
the middle of next week." Burns, however, did not go to Dumfriesshire so early as 
he expected. There was dilatoriness on Creech's part regarding settlements as to the 
poems ; there was perhaps dilatoriness on Burns's part regarding the farm ; at all 
events, autumn had glided into winter, and he remained at Edinburgh without having 
come to a conclusion with either. The winter, however, was destined to open one of 
the strangest chapters in his strange story. At this time he made the acquaintance 
of Mrs. M'Lehose, the Clarinda of so many impassioned letters. This lady, who was 
possessed of no common beauty and intelligence, had been deserted by her husband, 
and was bringing up her children in somewhat narrow circumstances. They met at 
tea in the house of a common friend, and were pleased with each other's conversation. 
The second night after, Burns was to have drank tea by invitation at the house of Mrs. 
M'Lehose, but having been upset the previous evening by a drunken coachman, and 
brought home with a knee severely bruised, he was obliged to forego that pleasure. 
He wrote the lady, giving the details of the accident, and expressing regret that he 
was unable to leave his room. The lady, who was of a temperament generous and 
impulsive, replied at once, giving utterance to her regret, and making Burns a formal 
proffer of her sympathy and friendship. Burns was enraptured, and returned an 
answer after the following fashion : — 

" I stretch a point, indeed, my dearest madam, when I answer your card on the rack 
of my present agony. Your friendship, madam ! By heavens ! I was never proud 









BIO GRA FIIIC A I PRE FA CE. 



XX111 



before. ... I swear solemnly (in all the terror of my former oath) to remember you in 
all the pride and warmth of friendship until — I cease to be ! 

M To-morrow, and every day till I see you, you shall hear from me. 
•• Farewell ! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have." 
The correspondence, so rapturously opened, proceeded quite as rapturously. It was 
arranged that in future Burns should sign himself Sylvander, and the lady Clarinda. 
Each day gave birth to its epistle. Poems were interchanged. Sighs were wafted 
from St. James's Square to the Potterow. Clarinda was a " gloriously amiable fine 
woman," and Sylvander was her "devoted slave." Clarinda chid Sylvander tenderly 
for the warmth of his expressions. Sylvander was thrown into despair by the rebuke, 
but protested that he was not to blame. Who could behold her superior charms, her 
fine intelligence, and not love ? who could love and be silent ? Clarinda had strong 
Calvinistic leanings, and Sylvander, who could not pardon these things in Ayrshire 
clergymen, and was accustomed to call them by quite other names, was " delighted by 
her honest enthusiasm for religion." Clarinda was to be passing on a certain day 
through the square in which Sylvander lived, and promised to favor him with a nod, 
should she be so fortunate as to see him at his window ; and wrote sorrowing, the day 
after, that she had been unable to discover his window. Sylvander was inconsolable. 
Not able to discover his window ! He could almost throw himself over it for very vexa- 
tion. His peace is spoiled for the day. He is sure the soui is capable of disease, for 
his has convulsed itself into an inflammatory fever, and so on. During this period of 
letter-writing, Burns and Mrs. M'Lehose had met several times in her own house, and 
on these occasions he had opportunities of making her aware of his dismal prospects. 
The results of his renewed intercourse with Jean on his return to Ayrshire were now 
becoming apparent ; this was communicated to her along with other matters, and Mrs. 
M'Lehose was all forgiveness — tempered with rebuke, and a desire for a more Calvin- 
istic way of thinking on his part on religious subjects. That the affection of Burns for 
the lady was rooted in any thing deeper than fancy, and a natural delight in intelligence 
and a pleasing manner, may be doubted. His C/arinda letters are artificial, and one 
suspects the rhetorician in the swelling sentences and the exaggerated sentiment. With 
regard to Mrs. M'Lehose there can be no mistake. Her letters are far superior to 
Burns's, being simple, natural, and with a pathetic cadence in some portions, which has 
not yet lost the power to affect. She loved Burns, and hoped, if he would but wait till 
existing ties were broken, to be united to him. But Burns could not wait, the corre- 
spondence drooped, and a year saw all his passion 



" Fade away, 
" And melt into the light of common day; 



the common day of Jean Armour, Ellisland, and the Excise. 

When Burns at this period, confined to his room by an angry limb, in the middle of 
his Clarinda correspondence, and tortured with suspicions of Creech's insolvency — 
of which some ugly rumors had reached him — was made aware that Jean was about to 
become again a mother, and that her father had thrust her from his house in anger, he 
was perhaps more purely wretched than at any other period of his life. In his own 
breast there was passionate tumult and remorse. Look where he would, no blue spot 
was to be discovered in the entire sky of his prospects. He had felt the sweetness of 
applause : he was now to experience the bitterness of the after-taste. He was a "lion " 
whose season had passed. His great friends seemed unwilling or unable to procure 
him a post. He had been torn from his old modes of life, and in the new order of 
things which surrounded him he could find nothing permanent, nothing that would 
cohere. Time was passing; his life was purposeless; he was doing nothing, effecting 
nothing; he was flapping in the wind like an unbraced sail. At this juncture he 
resolved to brins? matters to a conclusion, after one fashion or another. In his letters, the 
old scheme of emigration to the West Indies turns up bitterly for a moment. Then he 
bethought himself of a post in the Excise, which had always been a dream of his. and 



XXIV 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



the possibility of his obtaining which had been discussed by his Ayrshire friends before 
he became famous. If such a position could be secured it would be at least something, 
something in itself, something to fall back upon should his farming schemes prove abor- 
tive. He accordingly wrote the Earl of Glencairn, soliciting his patronage, but the 
application appears to have been followed by no result. Mr. Graham of Fintry, whose 
acquaintance Burns had made at Blair, the seat of the Duke of Athole, having heard 
of his wish, through the kind offices of Mr. Alexander Wood, the surgeon who attended 
him, immediately placed his name on the list of expectant officers. Having arranged 
his Excise business so far, he left Edinburgh to have another look at Mr. Miller's 
farms, and to come to an agreement, if possible. He took a friend with him on 
whose sagacity and business skill he could confide ; and after a deliberate inspection of 
the lands, he was better satisfied than he had been on a former occasion, and at once 
made an offer to Mr. Miller for the farm at Ellisland, which was accepted. On his 
return to Edinburgh, he announced his resolution to his friend Miss Chalmers : 

" Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, for the farm of 
Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. I 
begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, etc., and Heaven be my help ! for it 
will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I have dis- 
charged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures — a motley host ! and 
have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have incorpo- 
rated into a life-guard." 

Burns's business at this time in Edinburgh related to his settlement with Creech, 
which, after many delays, was about to take place. In all, he appears to have received 
between 400/. and 500/., and out of this sum he advanced 200/. to his brother Gilbert, 
who was struggling manfully at Mossgiel. On the 24th March, with much business 
on hand, he left Edinburgh for Ayrshire, where he married Jean Armour — snapping 
thereby the chief link which bound him to the metropolis. This union, putting moral 
considerations out of the question altogether, was the most prudent course open to him, 
and it repaired the fabric of self-respect which had been, to some extent at least, 
broken down. For a time we hear nothing of the " wandering stabs of remorse," and his 
letters breathe a quite unusual contentedness. He had made some little self-sacrifice, and 
he tasted the happiness which always arises from the consciousness of self-sacrifice. 
Besides, he had loved the girl, perhaps loved her all through, although the constant 
light of affection had, to himself as well as to others, been obscured by the glare of 
fiercer and more transitory fires ; and if so — the sacrifice not so great as he supposed 
it to be — he was plainly a gainer both ways. Burns was placed at this time in difficult 
circumstances, and he simply made the best of them. He could build only with the 
materials within reach. There was nothing left but to begin life again as a farmer, 
and it behooved him to wear russet on heart as well as on limb. In the heyday of his 
Edinburgh success, he foresaw the probability of his return to the rural shades, and to 
these shades he had now returned — but he returned with reputation, experience, an 
unreproving conscience, some little money in hand, and with solider prospects of happi- 
ness than had ever yet fallen to his lot. Happiness he did taste for a few months — 
and then out of the future came the long shadows of disaster, fated not to pass away, 
but to gather deeper and darker over a grave which was dug too early — and yet too 
late. 

When Burns entered into possession of Ellisland, at Whitsunday, 1788, he left his 
wife at Mauchline till the new dwelling-house should be erected. In the mean time he 
was sufficiently busy ; he had to superintend masons and carpenters, as well as look 
after more immediate farm matters. Besides, in order to qualify himself for holding 
his Excise Commission, he had to give attendance at Ayr for six weeks on the duties 
of his new profession. These occupations, together with occasional visits to his wife 
and family, kept him fully occupied. Hope had sprung up in his bosom like a Jonah's 
gourd, and while the greenness lasted he was happy enough. During his solitary life 
at Ellisland, he wrote two or three of his finest songs, each of them in praise of Jean, 
and each giving evidence that Iiib heart was at rest. During this time, too, a somewhat 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



XXV 



extensive correspondence was kept up, and activity and hopefulness — only occasionally 
dashed by accesses of his constitutional melancholy — radiate through it all. As was 
natural, his letters relate, for the most part, to his marriage and his new prospects. As 
respects his marriage, he takes abundant care to make known that, acting as he had done, 
he had acted prudently ; that he had secured an admirable wife, and that in his new 
relationship he was entirely satisfied. If any doubt should exist as to Burns's satisfac- 
tion, it can arise only from his somewhat too frequent protestation of it. He takes care 
to inform his correspondents that he has actually married Jean, that he would have been 
a scoundrel had he declined to marry her, and that she possessed the sweetest temper 
and the handsomest figure in the country. The truth is, that in the matter of matri- 
mony, he could not very well help himself. He was aware that the match was far from 
a brilliant one, and as he really loved his wife, he had to argue down that feeling in his 
own heart ; he was aware that his correspondents did not consider it brilliant, and he 
had also to argue down that feeling in theirs. Meanwhile, the house at Ellisland was 
getting finished. In the first week of December he brought home his wife, and in the 
pride of his heart he threw off a saucy little song, 

" I hae a wife o' my ain," 

which quivers through every syllable of it with a homely and assured delight that laughs 
at all mischance. Mrs. Burns brought her children and a whole establishment of 
servants. The house was small, its accommodation was limited, and Burns sat at meals 
with his domestics, and on Sunday evenings, after the good old Scottish fashion, he duly 
catechised them. He has himself left on record that this was the happiest portion of 
his life. He had friends, with whom he maintained an intimate correspondence ; he 
had a wife who loved him ; his passionate and wayward heart was at rest in its own 
happiness ; he could see the grain yellowing in his own fields ; he had the Excise Com- 
mission in his pocket on which he could fall back if any thing went wrong ; and on the 
red scaur above the river he could stride about, giving audience to incommunicable 
thought, while the Nith was hoarse with flood, and the moon was wading through 
clouds overhead. When should he have been happy, if not now ? 

Burns's farming operations during the second year of his occupancy of Ellisland 
were not successful, and in the more unrestrained letters of the period we find him com- 
plaining of his hard fate in being obliged to make one guinea do the work of five. As 
the expense of his family was now rapidly increasing, he requested to be allowed to 
enter at once on his duties as officer of Excise. That in his new mode of life he would 
encounter unpleasantnesses he knew, and was prepared for them ; but he expected that 
Mrs. Burns would be able to manage the farm for the most part — in any case his salary 
as Exciseman would be a welcome addition to his means. He was appointed on appli- 
cation, he entered zealously on his duties, and as his district extended over ten parishes 
he was forced to ride about two hundred miles per week. This work, taken in con- 
junction with labor at Ellisland, which, constantly getting into arrear, demanded fierce 
exertion at intervals, was too much for even his iron frame. He had attacks of illness, 
and his constitutional hypochondria ruled him with a darker sceptre than ever. It 
appears evident from his letters that he meant to make his fight at Ellisland, and that 
he considered the Excise as a second line of defence on which he could fall back in the 
event of defeat. At Ellisland he was defeated, and on this second line of defence he 
fell back grimly enough. An Excise officer is not a popular character in country dis- 
tricts where smugglers abound ; and whatever degree of odium might attach to his new 
profession Burns was certain to feel more keenly than most. One can see that in his 
new relation his haughty spirit was ill at ease; that he suspected a sort of meanness in 
himself ; and that the thought that he had in any way stooped or condescended was 
gall and wormwood. His bitterness on this matter escapes in various and characteristic 
ways. At one time he treats the matter with imperial disdain, declaring that he docs 
not intend "to seek honor from his profession;" at another time in a set of impromptu 
verses he mocks at his occupation and himself, illuminating the whole business with a 




XXVI 







BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 




flame of spleenful mirth. But the step he had taken was unquestionably a prudent one, 
and if it miscarried, it miscarried from foreign causes. From every account which sur- 
vives, he was an excellent and zealous officer, and into his work he carried eyes which 
were at once sharp and kindly. It was not in his nature to be harsh or tyrannical. A 
word revealed secrets to him, a glance let him into the bearing of a case, and while he 
saw that the interests of Government did not materially suffer, his good nature and 
kind-heartedness were always at hand to make matters as pleasant as possible. One or 
two of these Excise anecdotes are amongst the pleasantest remembrances we have of 
Burns. His professional prospects were, on the whole, far from despicable. On his 
farm he was losing money, health, and hope ; but in the Excise he looked forward 
to advancement — an Inspectorship or Supervisorship being regarded as within his 
reach. 

If Ellisland had only been profitable, Burns might have been considered a fortunate 
man. For his own wants and for those of his family the cottage which he had built 
sufficed. The scenery around him was beautiful. He was on good terms with the 
neighboring proprietors, and his reputation attracted visitors from many quarters. He 
procured books from Edinburgh and from the circulating library which — with that 
regard for mental means and appliances which seems to have been a characteristic of 
his race — he had established in the vicinity. Every other day letters and newspapers 
were arriving at Ellisland, connecting him with distant places and events ; and the 
stranger who dropped in upon him from London or Edinburgh, or even from places 
more remote, brought talk, ideas, observations on this thing and the other more or less 
valuable, stimulus, excitement — all tending to enrich intellectual life. And during 
this time he was no mental sluggard. He worked his brain as he worked his servants 
on the acres at Ellisland, or his horse as he rode on the scent of a smuggler through 
the Nithsdale moors. He carried on a multifarious correspondence, he wrote his letters 
carefully — only a little too carefully sometimes, for he is occasionally modish and 
over-dressed. Every other week he sent a packet of songs to Johnson for his Museum, 
which had now reached the third volume. He interested himself in local politics and 
scribbled electioneering ballads. One evening, when the past — heavy with unshed 
tears — lay near his heart, he composed the strain, To Mary in Heaven ; and in the 
course of one summer day, in a perfect riot and whirlwind of ecstasy, every faculty 
and power in full blossom, he dashed off Tain CShanler — immortal, unapproachable! 
If Ellisland had but paid, Burns might have been happy as farmer and poet, — or as 
exciseman, farmer and poet, — for the characters were by no means incompatible. 

As but for his Excise salary Burns must have succumbed under farming difficulties, 
he was now anxious to be quit of Ellisland, and to confine himself entirely to his 
official duties ; and it so happened that Mr. Miller was willing to release him of the 
portion of the lease which was yet to run, preparatory to a final sale of that part of 
the lands. The Ellisland crops were sold, and the sale was made the occasion of a 
drunken orgy. On the ist September, Burns writes to Mr. Thomas Sloan: 

" I sold my crop on this day se'en-night, and sold it very well. A guinea an acre on 
an average above value. But such a scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in 
this country. After the roup was over about thirty people engaged in a battle, every 
man for his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much 
better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and decant- 
ing, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending on them that they could not stand. 
You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I was no farther over than you used 
to see me." 

In November Ellisland became the property of Mr. Morine, and Burns immediately 
sold his farm stock and implements — relinquishing forever the plough-tail, at which 
he so often boasted that he had an independence — and removed with his wife and 
children to a small house in the New Vennel of Dumfries. On his removal he was 
appointed to an excise division, which improved his salary. His income was now 70/. 
per annum. 

It is at Dumfries that Burns's story first becomes really tragical. He had divorced 








3£ 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



XXV11 




himself from country scenery and the on-goings of rural life, which, up till now, formed 
an appropriate background for our ideas of him. Instead of the knowes and meadows 
of Mossgiel and Ellisland, with their lovely sunrises and twilights, we have to connect 
him with the streets, the gossip, and the dissipation of a third-rate Scottish town. He 
was no longer a farmer — he was a simple gauger, hoping to obtain a supervisorship. 
Proud as was his spirit, he was dependent on great friends ; and he condescended, on 
various occasions, to write epistles in prose and verse which fawned on a patron's 
hand. Natural inspiration and picturesqueness were taken out of his life. He turned 
down no more daisies, the horned moon hung no longer in the window-pane of the ale- 
house in which he drank ; the composition of theatrical prologues engaged his atten- 
tion rather than the composition of poems of rustic life. He was never rich, but in 
Dumfries his poverty for the first time wears an aspect of painfulness. For the first 
time we hear of monetary difficulties, of obligations which he cannot conveniently meet, 
of debt. It was here, too, that certain weaknesses, which had lately grown upon him, 
attracted public notice. In Dumfries, as in Edinburgh at that time, there was a good 
deal of tavern-life, and much hard drinking at dinner and supper parties, and the like. 
Burns was famous — he had lived in dukes' houses, he corresponded with celebrated 
men, he could talk brilliantly, he had wit for every call as other men had spare silver, 
he could repeat his last poem or epigram — and as a consequence his society was in 
great request. It was something to have dined or supped in the company of Burns — 
if one was not the rose, it was at least something to have been near the rose — and his 
host was proud of him, as he was proud of his haunch of venison, his claret, his silver 
epcrgne. Burns's good things circulated with the wine ; his wit gave a new relish to 
the fruit, and kindled an unwonted splendor in the brains of his listeners. Then 
strangers, passing through Dumfries, were naturally anxious to see the poet whose rep- 
utation had travelled so far. They invited him to the inns in which they were living, 
Burns consented, frequently the revel was loud and late, and when he rose — after the 
sun sometimes — he paid his share of the lawing with "a slice of his constitution." In 
his younger days he had been subjected to public rebuke by the Rev. Mr. Auld; but 
since his marriage he seems to have been irreproachable ih the matter of conjugal 
fidelity. During, however, an unfortunate absence of his wife in Ayrshire he con- 
tracted a discreditable liaison, which resulted in the birth of a daughter. Mrs. Burns 
seems neither to have reproached nor complained ; she adopted the child, and brought 
it up in the same cradle with her own infant. If for his fault he had been subjected 
to domestic annoyance, he might have taken refuge in pride and haughtily repelled 
reproaches ; but his wife's forgiveness allowed him to brood — and with what bitterness 
we can guess — over his misconduct. Doubtless the evil in his career at Dumfries has 
been exaggerated. Burns's position was full of peril — he was subjected to temptations 
which did not come in the way of ordinary men ; and if he drank hard it was in an age 
when hard drinking was fashionable. If he sinned in this respect, he sinned in com- 
pany with English prime ministers, Scotch Lords of Session, grave dignitaries of the 
Church in both countries, and with thousands of ordinary blockheads who went to 
their graves in the odor of sanctity, and whose epitaphs are a catalogue of all the 
virtues. Burns was a man set apart ; he was observed, he was talked about : and if 
he erred, it was like erring in the market-place. In any other inhabitant of Dumfries, 
misdemeanors such as Burns's would hardly have provoked remark; what would have 
been unnoticed on the hodden gray of the farmer became a stain on the singing robe 
of the poet. That Burns should have led an unworthy life is to be deplored, but the 
truth is — and herein lies explanation, palliation perhaps — that in Dumfries he was 
somewhat a-weary of the sun. Not seldom he was desperate and a tbay. He was nei- 
ther in harmony with himself nor with the world. He had enjoyed one burst of 
brilliant success, and in the light of that success his life before and after looked darker 
than it actually was. The hope deferred of a supervisorship made his heart sick. He 
had succeeded as a poet, but in every thing else failure had dogged his steps ; and out 
of that poetical success no permanent benefit had resulted, or seemed now in his need 
likely to result. In the east were the colors of the dawn, but the sun would not arise. 









XXV111 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 





His letters at this time breathe an almost uniform mood of exasperation and misery, 
and it is hard for a miserable man to be a good one. He is tempted to make strange 
alliances, and to pay a high price for forgetfulness. And over Burns's head at this 
time was suspended one other black cloud, which, although it only burst in part, made 
the remainder of his life darker with its shadow. 

Chief amongst Burns's friends during the early portion of his residence at Dumfries 
were Mr. and Mrs. Riddel. They were in good circumstances, possessing a small 
estate in the neighborhood of the town, and Burns was frequently their guest. Mrs. 
Riddel was young and pretty, and distinguished by literary taste and accomplishment. 
She wrote verses which Burns praised, and he introduced her to his friend Smellie, the 
naturalist, who was enchanted with her vivacity and talent. But this pleasant relation- 
ship was destined to be interrupted. On the occasion of a dinner-party at Woodley 
Park, the residence of Mr. Riddel, when wine flowed much too freely, Burns — in some 
not quite explained manner — grievously offended his hostess. On the following morn- 
ing he apologized in prose and verse, threw the onus of his rudeness on Mr. Riddel's 
wine — which was the next thing to blaming Mr. Riddel himself — and in every way 
expressed regret for his conduct and abhorrence of himself. These apologies do not 
seem to have been accepted, and for a time the friends ceased to meet. Burns was 
hnrt and angry, and he made the lady he was accustomed to address in adoring verses 
and high-flown epistles the subject of cruel and unmanly lampoons. The estrangement 
was, of course, noised abroad, and people were inclined to side with the fashionable 
lady rather than with the Jacobinical exciseman. For a time, at least, Dumfries re- 
garded Burns with a lowering and suspicious eye, one reason of which may be found in 
his quarrel with the Riddels and its cause, and another in the political principles which 
he professed to hold, and to which he gave imprudent expression. 

His immediate ancestors had perilled something in the cause of the Stuarts, and 
Burns, in his early days, was wont to wear a sentimental Jacobitism — for ornament's 
sake, like a ring on the finger, or a sprig of heather in the bonnet. This Jacobitism was 
fed by his sentiment and his poetry. It grew out of the House of Stuart as flowers 
grow out of the walls of ruins. But while he held the past in reverence, and respected 
aristocracy as an outcome of that past, a something around which tradition and bal- 
lad could gather, there was always a fierce democratic impulse in his mind, which 
raged at times like the ocean tide against the Bullers of Buchan. This democratic feel- 
ing, like his other feeling of Jacobitism, rested on no solid foundation. He had a strong 
feeling that genius and worth are always poor, that baseness and chicanery are always 
prosperous. He considered that the good things of this life were secured by the rascals 
more or less. The truth is, his Jacobitism sprang from his imagination, his radicalism 
from his discontent ; the one the offspring of the best portion of his nature, the other 
the offspring of the worst. Radicalism was originally born of hunger; and Burns, 
while denouncing the rulers of his country, was simply crying out under his own proper 
sore. He passionately carried particulars into generals. He was sick, and so was the 
whole body politic. He needed reform, so, of course, did the whole world, and it was 
more agreeable to begin with the world in the first instance. He was imprudent in the 
expression of his political opinions, and was continually doing himself injury thereby. 
He had written, as we have seen, treasonable verses on the inn window at Stirling ; and 
although, on a subsequent visit he dashed out the pane, he could not, by that means, 
destroy the copies which were in circulation. The writing of the verses referred to was 
imprudent enough, but the expression of his radicalism at Dumfries — which was a 
transient mood, not a fixed principle with him — was more imprudent still. In the one 
case, he was a private individual, anxious to enter the Excise ; in the other, he had 
entered the Excise, was actually a government officer, and in receipt of a government 
salary. Besides, too, the times were troublous : there was seditious feeling in the coun- 
try, France had become a volcano in active eruption, and European business was carried 
on in its portentous light. It became known that Burns looked with favor on the revo- 
lutionary party across the Channel, that he read newspapers which were opposed to the 
Government, and, as a consequence, by the well-to-do inhabitants of Dumfries he was 







BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



XXIX 



regarded with suspicion. This suspicion was, of course, wretched enough, but Burns 
need not have gone out of his way to incur it. He knew perfectly well that his radical- 
ism was based on no serious conviction, that it grew out of personal discontent, and 
that the discontent was the result of wounded pride, and the consciousness that he had 
not shaped his life aright. Besides all this, he seems to have lost self-command ; he 
was constantly getting into scrapes, from which there could be no honorable extrication. 
He burned his fingers, and he did not dread the fire. To the Subscription Library 
in Dumfries he presented, amongst other volumes, a copy of De Lolme on the British 
Constitution, and inscribed on the back of the portrait of the author, " Mr. Burns pre- 
sents this book to the Library, and begs they will take it as a creed of British liberty — 
until they find a better. R. B." And next morning he came to the bedside of the 
gentleman who had the volumes in custody, imploring to see De Lolme, as he feared 
he had written something in it that might bring him into trouble. We hear of him 
at a private dinner-party, when the health of Pitt was proposed, giving " The health 
of George Washington — a better man," and of his being sulky that his toast was not 
received. He had already sent a present of guns to the French Convention, with which 
our prospect of war was at this time becoming imminent ; and at a later period we find 
him quarrelling with an officer on the subject of another toast, and writing apologies 
to the effect, firstly, that when the offence was committed he was drunk ; and sec- 
ondly, that he could not fight a duel, because he had the welfare of others to care for. 
When the Board of Excise ordered some inquiries to be made regarding his political 
conduct, he wrote Mr. Graham of Fintry, declaring that " To the British Constitution, 
on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most devoutly attached." He was 
in a state of chronic exasperation at himself, at the rich people of his acquaintance, and 
of his immediate neighborhood, and at the world generally ; and this exasperation was 
continually blazing out in sarcasm and invective. Curiously enough, too, when one 
thinks of it, during all this bitter time he was writing songs for Mr. Thomson, who had 
opened a correspondence with him. He was busy with Chloris and Phillis, while 
thrones were shaking, and the son of St. Louis knelt on the scaffold, and Marie Antoi- 
nette during her trial was beating out with weary fingers a piano tune on the bench 
before her. Every other week up from Dumfries to Edinburgh came by the fly a packet 
of songs for the new publication. On one occasion came the stern war-ode, Scots who. 
hae wf Wallace bled, which Mr. Thomson thought susceptible of improvement. But 
Burns was inexorable ; he liked his ode, and as it was it should remain. It has been 
said, that by the more respectable circles in Dumfries, Burns was regarded with suspi- 
cion, if not with positive dislike. Some evidence of this will be found in the anecdote 
related by Mr. Lockhart. " Mr. M'Culloch," we are informed by that biographer, " was 
seldom more grieved than when, riding into Dumfries one fine summer evening to 
attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the shady side of the principal 
street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of ladies and 
gentlemen, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared 
willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his 
proposing to him to cross the street, said, ' Nay, nay, my young friend, that's all over 
now ; ' and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizel Baillie's pathetic ballad : — 

' His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
His auld ane looked better than mony ane's new; 
But now he let's wear ony gate it will hing, 
And casts himsel' down upon the corn-bing. 

' Oh, were we young as we ance hae been, 
We sud hae been galloping down on yon green, 
And linking it ower the lily-white lea — 
And werena my heart light I wad die.' 

Burns then turned the conversation, and took his young friend home with him till the 
time for the ball arrived." 





,«sr^8SiS 






XXX 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 




This — with the exception of the actual close — was the darkest period in Burns' 
life. In a short time the horizon cleared a little. The quarrel with Mrs. Riddel was 
healed, and in a short time books and poems were exchanged between them as of yore. 
He appears also to have had again some hope of obtaining a supervisorship — the 
mirage that haunted his closing years. Meanwhile political feeling had become less 
bitter; and, in 1795, ne exhibited his friendliness to the institutions of the country by 
entering himself one of a corps of volunteers which was raised in Dumfries, and by 
composing the spirited patriotic song, Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? This 
song became at once popular ; and it showed the nation that the heart of the writer 
was sound at the core, that he hated anarchy and tyranny alike, and wished to steer 
a prudent middle course. Better days were dawning ; but by this time the hardships 
of his youth, his constant anxieties, his hoping against hope, and his continual pas- 
sionate stress and tumult of soul, began to tell on a frame that was originally powerful. 
In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, in the beginning of the year, we have, under his own hand, 
the first warning of failing strength. " What a transient business is life," he writes. 
" Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I was a young man ; and I already begin to 
feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." In 
spite of breaking health, he attended his Excise duties, and the packets of songs were 
sent regularly from Dumfries to Edinburgh. In the songs there was no symptom of 
ache or pain ; in these his natural vigor was in no wise abated. The dew still hung, 
diamond-like, upon the thorn. Love was still lord of all. On one occasion he went 
to a party at the Globe Tavern, where he waited late, and on his way home, heavy with 
liquor, he fell asleep in the open air. The result, in his weakened state of body, was 
disastrous. He was attacked by rheumatic fever, his appetite began to fail, his black 
eyes lost their lustre, his voice became tremulous and hollow. His friends hoped that, 
if he could endure the cold spring months, the summer warmth would revive him ; but 
summer came and brought no recovery. He was now laid aside from his official work. 
During his illness he was attended by Miss Jessie Lewars,a sister of his friend Lewars 
— "a fellow of uncommon merit ; indeed, by far the cleverest fellow I have met in this 
part of the world " — and her kindness the dying poet repaid by the only thing he was 
rich enough to give — a song of immortal sweetness. His letters at this time are full 
of his disease, his gloomy prospects, his straitened circumstances. In July he went to 
Brow, a sea-bathing village on the Solway, where Mrs. Riddel was then residing in 
weak health, and there the friends, — for all past bitternesses were now forgotten, — 
had an interview. "Well, Madam, have you any commands for the other world?" 
was Burns's greeting. He talked of his approaching decease calmly, like one who had 
grown so familiar with the idea that it had lost all its terror. His residence on the 
Solway was not productive of benefit : he was beyond all aid from sunshine and 
the saline breeze. On the 7th July, he wrote Mr. Cunningham, urging him to use his 
influence with the Commissioners of Excise to grant him his full salary. " If they do 
not grant it me," he concludes, " I must lay my account with an exit truly en poete ; 
if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." On the 10th July, he wrote his 
brother Gilbert ; and Mrs. Dunlop, who had become unaccountably silent, two days 
after. On this same 12th July, he addressed the following letter to his cousin : — 

"My dear Cousin, — When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should 
want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his 
head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated 
body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten 
pounds? Oh, James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me ! Alas![ 
I am not used to beg. The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely. You know, and 
my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease — guess, then, 
my horror since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well, in a 
manner. How shall I use the language to you? — oh, do not disappoint me ! but strong neces- 
sity's curst command. 

" Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post — save me from the horrors of a 
jail. 



^>>B« 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



xxxi 



" My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have 
written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look over it again. Farewell. 

" R. B." 

On the same day he addressed Mr. Thomson : — 

"After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel scoundrel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head 
that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me in jail. Do, for God's 
sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness; but the hor- 
rors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon return- 
ing health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest 
song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on Rothemurchie this morning. The measure is 
so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. 
Forgive, forgive me ! " 

This was Burns's last working day. He wrote his song in the morning, Fairest 
Maid on Devon Banks, and the two letters afterwards — to both of which answers 
were promptly returned. He soon after left the Solway and returned to Dumfries, 
where his wife was daily expected to be confined. He came home in a small spring- 
cart, and when he alighted, he was unable to stand. The hand of death was visibly 
upon him. His children were sent to the house of Mr. Lewars : Jessie was sedulous 
in her attentions. On the 21st, he sank into delirium ; his children were brought to 
see him for the last time ; and with an execration on the legal agent who had threat- 
ened him, the troubled spirit passed. Those who came to see him as he lay in his last 
sleep were touched and affected. Mighty is the hallowing of death to all, — to him 
more than to most. As he lay stretched, his dark locks already streaked with unnat- 
ural gray, all unworthiness fell away from him — every stain of passion and debauch, 
every ignoble word, every ebullition of scorn and pride — and left pure nobleness. 
Farmer no longer, exciseman no longer, subject no longer to criticism, to misrepresen- 
tation, to the malevolence of mean natures and evil tongues, he lay there, the great 
poet of his country, dead too early for himself and for it. He had passed from the 
judgments of Dumfries, and made his appeal to Time. 

Of Burns, the man and poet, what is there left to be said? During his lifetime he 
was regarded as a phenomenon ; and now, when he has been seventy years in his grave, ■ 
he is a phenomenon still. He came up from Ayrshire with all the sense and shrewd- 
ness of its peasantry, the passion of its lovers, the piety of its circles of family worship, 
the wild mirth of its kirns and halloweens. Of all the great men of the North Country, 
his was incomparably the fullest soul. What fun he had, what melancholy, what pity, 
what anger, what passion, what homely sagacity, what sensitiveness ! Of every thing he 
was brimful and overflowing. It is difficult to carry a full cup and not to spill it. 
He had his errors, but they arose out of his splendid and perilous richness. As a man 
he was full of natural goodness, but he was unreticent even amongst poets. We know 
the best and the worst of him ; and he has himself frankly told us that best and that 
worst. He had to fight with adverse circumstances, he died before he had run his race, 
and his fame — greater than that of any other poet of his country — rests upon poems 
written swiftly, as men write their letters, and on songs which came to him naturally 
as its carol comes to the blackbird. 

Of all poets Burns was, perhaps, the most directly inspired. His poems did not 
grow — like stalactites — by the slow process of accretion; like Adam, they had no 
childhood — they awoke complete. Burns produced ail his great effects by single 
strokes. In his best things there is an impetus, a hurry, which gives one the idea of 
boundless resource. To him a song was the occupation of a morning ; his poetic 
epistles drive along in a fiery sleet of words and images : his Tarn C Shanter was 
written in a day — since Bruce fought Bannockburn, the best single day's work done in 
Scotland. Burns was never taken by surprise; he was ready for all calls and emergen- 
cies. He had not only —like Addison — a thousand-pound note at home, but he had 
— to carry out the image — plenty of loose intellectual coin in his pocket. A richer 



XXX11 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 





man — with plenty of money in his purse, and able to get the money out of his purse 
when swift occasion required — Nature has seldom sent into the world. 

Born and bred as he was in the country, we find in Burns the finest pictures of rural 
life. We smell continually the newly-turned earth, the hawthorn blossom, the breath 
of kine. His shepherds and shepherdesses are not those who pipe and make love in 
Arcady and on Sevres china — they actually work, receive wages, attend markets, hear 
sermons, go sweethearting, and, at times, before the congregation endure rebuke. The 
world he depicts is a real world, and the men and women are also real. Burns had to 
sweat in the eye of Phoebus, and about all he writes there is an out-of-doors feeling. 
Although conversant with sunrises and sunsets, the processes of vegetation, and all the 
shows and forms of nature, he seldom or never describes these things for their own 
sake ; they are always kept in subordination to the central human interest. Burns 
cared little for the natural picturesque in itself ; the moral picturesque touched him 
more nearly. An old soldier in tattered scarlet interested him more than an old ruin ; 
he preferred a gnarled character to a gnarled tree. The ridges of Arran haunt Ayrshire 
— Burns must daily have seen them from his door at Mossgiel — and yet, to this most 
striking object in his range of vision, there is not a single allusion in his letters and 
poems. If Wordsworth had been placed in the same environment, how he would have 
made his suns rise or set on Arran ! After all, it is usually the town-poets — men like 
Hunt and Keats — who go philandering after nature, who are enraptured by the grace- 
ful curvature of ferns, and the colors of mosses and lichens. Burns had an exquisite 
delight in Nature, especially in her more sombre and gloomy aspects ; but he took a 
deeper interest in man, and, as a consequence, the chief interest of his poems is of 
a moral kind. We value them not so much for their color, their harmony, their curious 
felicities of expression, as for the gleams of sagacity, the insight into character, the 
strong homely sense, and those wonderful short sentences scattered everywhere. Of 
those short lines and sentences, now sly, now caustic, now broadly humorous, now 
purely didactic, no writings, if Shakspeare's be excepted, have a greater abundance. 
They circulate everywhere like current coin ; they have passed like iron into the blood 
of our common speech. Of Burns's conversation in Edinburgh we have little recorded 
that is specially characteristic — and for this we blame not Burns, but his reporters. 
The best thing — indeed, the only true and deep thing — is the simple statement which 
struck Dugald Stewart so much when the pair were standing on the Braid Hills, looking 
out on the fair morning world. Beneath were cottages, early sparrows doubtless noisy 
in the thatch, pillars of blue smoke, telling of preparation of breakfast for laborers 
afield, curling in the calm air. Burns took in the whole landscape, and declared that, 
in his view, the worthiest object it contained was the cluster of smoking cots, knowing 
as he did, what worth, what affection, what pious contentment and happiness, nestled 
within them. This really is a gleam into the man's inmost soul. Poetry, to him, lay 
in the cottage rather than in the tree that overshadowed it, or the stream that sparkled 
past it. In one of his poems he lays down the doctrine in express terms — 

" To mak a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life." 

The poetry of a man so intensely humane is certain to come home to the bosoms 
and businesses of all other men — powerfully to the happy, more powerfully to the 
miserable, who are ever in the majority. To the wretched, out of the Bible, there is 
no such solace as the poetry of Burns. His genius comes to their hovels, their poor 
bread wetted with tears, as Howard came to the strong places of pestilence — irradiat- 
ing, consoling ; like the hearing of soft tones, like the touches of tender hands. And 
then his large friendliness flows out in every direction. The " mouse " is his " poor 
earth-born companion and fellow-mortal." He pities the "silly sheep," and the " chit- 
tering wing " of the bird perched on the frozen spray. The farmer speaks to his old 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



XXXlll 



mare " Maggie " as he would to a comrade, who had shared with him his struggles, 
toils, and triumphs. The poetry of Burns flows into a wintry world, like a tepid gulf- 
stream — mitigating harsh climates, breathing genial days, carrying with it spring-time 
and the cuckoo's note. 

Of his humor again — which is merely his love laughing and playing antics in very 
extravagance of its joy — what can be said, except that it is the freshest, most original, 
most delightful in the world? What a riot of fun in Tarn O' Shanter ; what strange 
co-mixture of mirth and awf ulness in Death and Dr. Hornbook ; what extravaganza in 
the Address to a Haggis ! To Burns's eye the world was dark enough, usually ; but 
on the gala-days and carnivals of his spirit Mirth rules the hour, ragged Poverty dances 
all the lighter for his empty pockets, Death himself grins as he is poked in the lean 
ribs. And if, as is said, from the sweetest wine you can extract the sourest vinegar, 
one can fancy into what deadly satire this love will congeal itself, when it becomes hate. 
Burns hates his foe — be it man or doctrine — as intensely as he loves his mistress. 
Holy Willie 's Prayer is a satirical crucifixion — slow, lingering, inexorable. He hated 
Hypocrisy, he tore its holy robe, and for the outrage Hypocrisy did not forgive him 
while he lived, nor has it yet learned to forgive him. 

If we applaud the Roman Emperor who found Rome brick and left it marble, what 
shall we say of the man who found the songs of his country indelicate and left them 
pure — who made wholesome the air which the spirit and the affections breathe ? And 
Burns did this. He drove immodesty from love, and coarseness from humor. And not 
only did he purify existing Scottish song ; he added to it all that it has of best and 
rarest. Since his day, no countryman of his, whatever may be his mood, need be vis- 
ited by a sense of solitariness, or ache with a pent-up feeling. If he is glad, he will 
find a song as merry as himself ; if sad, he will find one that will sigh with his own 
woe. In Burns's songs, love finds an exquisite companionship ; independence a backer 
and second ; conviviality a roaring table, and the best fellows round it ; patriotism a 
deeper love of country, and a gayer scorn of death than even its own. And in so 
adding to, and purifying Scottish song, Burns has conferred the greatest benefit on his 
countrymen that it is in the power of a poet to confer. 





i 






Twa dogs, that ivere na thrang at hame, 
Forgather 'd auce upon a time." — Page i. 



! : 'TV 




POEMS 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at name, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpet some place far abroad, 
Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar ; 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But tho' he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
An' stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Whafor his friend and comrade had him, 
An' in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang, 
Was made lang syne, Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dike. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward cur), 
Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl. 











THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff 'd and snowket ; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howket ; 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
An' there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

C^SAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
"What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonie, silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan, 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh : 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and siclike, 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



But, how it comes, I never kent yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAR. 

But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit ! 
Lord, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle, 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wr aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear and tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches : 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think : 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives : 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs ; 
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, 
Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting Kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 








f 



V^-W^ 





THE POEMS OF BURKS. 



That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes ranting thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root an' branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais taks a waft, 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ton an' see the worP. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he taks the rout, 
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles : 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival Signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



() would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels \vi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows : 
Except for breaking o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 



Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themsels to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion, less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party-matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches. 
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great an' gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 
There's some exceptions, man an' woman 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloamin brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, an' shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other Poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak' us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease an' Beans at een or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou King o' grain! 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil : 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in ! 
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-year mornin 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like Death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel. 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae Howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 




Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' Whisky punch 

Wi' honest men ! 

O Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 






I 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses ! 

Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— s ! 



Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic-grips, an' barkin hoast, 

May kill us a'; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor damn'd drinkers. 

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak' a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. 

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND HONOURABLE THE SCOTCH REPRESENTA- 
TIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of Distillation ! last and best — 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In Parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 



Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ; 

Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitten on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust! 



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THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



But could I like Montgomeries fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 
An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it? 
An' tell them, wi' a patriot-heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 




Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' with rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ; 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; 
An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' monie ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie!) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 



An' Lord, if ance they pit her till 't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 









THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 

An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For God sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie ! 
An' send him to his dicing-box 

An' sportin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock' 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble Bardie sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, . 

But blyth an' frisky, 
She eves her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotshman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him : 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 
I'll tell the reason. 



Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky 'gang thegither! 

Tak aff your dram 



T 



THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



THE HOLY FAIR. 




A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation: 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation: 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The risin sun, owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furrs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day. 



As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way. 
Twa had manteels o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining : 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shinin 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 



WT bonnet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
Fm sure Fve seen that bonie face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the han's, 
' Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten comman's 

A screed some day. 




*'/ -walked forth to view the com, 
An snuff the caller air." — Page 



THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



'5 



' My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day.' 

Quoth I, ' With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin ! ' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side by side, 

Wi' monie a wearie bodie, 

In droves that day. 

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin owre the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls, bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin, 
Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools, 

An' some are busy bleth'rin 

Right loud that day. 



Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw o' tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck, 
An' there, a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 

For fun this day. 





i6 



THE POEMS OE BURNS. 





Here, some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces ; 
On that, a set o' chaps, at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkend that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel an' gestures, 
O how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day ! 




But, hark! the tent has chang'd its voice 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They cannasit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 








THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



17 



What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs an' reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves, 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannilie he hums them; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like haftiins-wise o'ercomes him 

At times that dav. 



Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, 

An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 



Leeze me on Drink! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College: 
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, 

It pangs us fou o' Knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinkin' deep. 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 



i8 




THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're makin observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some dav. 



But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts ; 

Black Russel is na spairin : 
His piercing words, like Highlan swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell, 

Our vera " sauls does harrow " 

Wi' fright that day ! 




A vast, unbottom'd, boundless Pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane, 
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms and benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 






In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 




THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



19 



Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O Wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel 

How bonie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow, 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How mome hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine, 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
Great lies and nonsense baith to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city: 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a itrackle pity. 




SjJfF 



20 



THE POEMS 0E BURNS. 




The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I wasna fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae' ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glowr 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That pat me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang: 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava, 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 



' Guid-e'en,' quo' I ; ' Friend ! hae ye been mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ? ' 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, ' Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back?' 

It spak right howe — ' My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.' — Quoth I, ' Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie : 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully ! ' 

' Gudeman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle; 




THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



21 



But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre my beard.' 

' Weel, weel ! ' says I, ' a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gies your news : 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house.' 

' Ay, ay ! ' quo' he, an' shook his head, 
' It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 




' Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, 

Sin' I was to the butching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

' Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 



' See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

' 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain : 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

4 Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify'd the part, 




22 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

O' a kail-runt. 



' I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near haud cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock; 
I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

' E'en them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smell s't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At once he tells't. 



' And then, a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 






1 Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fortis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

' Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd/w se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae.' 




' Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,' 
Quoth I, ' if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnie ! ' 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, ' Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 




THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear. 

They'll a' be trench'd vvi' mony a she ugh 

In twa-three year. 

1 Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

' An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

1 A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 

Was Laird himsel. 

'A bonie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

'That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel pay'd for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

' But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin ! ' 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee, short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel, 

And sae did Death. 















VJ^*-* 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 





A POEM. 
INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush; 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill 

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field : 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame, 

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek: 
The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 



1 



KP»EM 




K 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



25 



Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 

Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 

The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season ; when a simple Bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 

By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care, 

He left his bed and took his wayward rout, 

And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about : 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 

He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 

The drowsy Dungeon clock had number'd two, 

And Wallace Tow'r had sworn the fact was true : 

The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen-sounding roar, 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream. — 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The vSprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd o' ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit, in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn Haws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guide'en : 




20 



THE POEMS 0E BURNS, 




AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, Frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith ! that date, I doubt, ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime, 
Compare wi' bonie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream, 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck, down to the Ratton-key, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 



NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't; 
The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices : 




THE rOEMS OE EUR AS. 



O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; 

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 

The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 

Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, 

That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion ; 

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 




AULD BRIG. 
O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealins, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ! 
Ye godly Councils wha haeibiest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story : 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new Brig? 
Harbours ! 






and 



NEW BRIG. 



Now haud you there ! faith ye've said enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through ; 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 





v*\^^H^^ 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




But, under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' Magistrates might wee! be spar'd : 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 

To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street. 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer of his lamp, 

And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares: 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



2 9 



Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 

A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 

From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 

Last, white-rob'd Peace, crovvn'd with a hazel wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 

The broken, iron instruments of death: 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 




THE ORDINATION. 



For sense, they little owe to frugal Heav'n — 
To please the mob, they hide the little giv'n. 



Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and 
claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations ; 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

An' Russel sair misca'd her; 
This day M'Kinlay taks the flail, 

An' he's the boy will blaud her! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daud her 
Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor: 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang 
her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 
An' touch it off wi' vigour, 

How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 
Which made Canaan a niger: 



Qr Phineas drove the murdering blade, 
Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; 

Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad, 
Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' Inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed 

He takes but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

A11' toss thy horns fu' canty; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the 
dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 
But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin ; 
Oh rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

And a' like lamb-tails flyin 

Fu' fast this day ! 




"''•'■rniiiiliiiiii"' i 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to his ruin : 
Our Patron honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And like a godly, elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 

Now Robinson harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk 
watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons : 
And ay he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his Honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 



See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 
She's swingein thro' the city ; 

Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat 
plays ! 
I vow it's unco pretty ! 



she 



There, Learning, with his Greekish 
face, 
Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, 
To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there, they're packed aff to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M'Kinlay, Russel are the boys 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some dav. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. 
" And ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall." 



Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Tho' Heretics may laugh; 
For instance ; there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 



And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 



. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



31 



But) if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear. 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 



And, in your lug, most reverend James, 
To hear you roar and rowte, 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
To rank amang the Nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

' Here lies a famous Bullock ! ' 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war — 

Milton. 



O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

Ev'n to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like 
me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy 

fame ; 
Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 



Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd Tempest 
flyin, 

Tirlin the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 



I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Graunie sum- 
mon, 
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest 

woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bum- 
min, 

Wi' eerie drone; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 
Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 

" stoor quaick, 



When wi' an eldritch, 



Aw 



quaick, 

Amang the springs, 
ye squatter'd like a drake, 
On whistling wings. 







v^/vj^*-^ 









32 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in 

vain; 
For, Oh! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' 

crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 
Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy 

hoord, 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, 
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Travelers are allur'd 
To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous mon- 
kies 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason's mystic word an' grip, 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun 
stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell. 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, 
When youthf u' lovers first were pair'd, 




An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 
The raptur'd hour, 

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 
In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be you fa!) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an ? reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Mang better folk, 
An' sklented on the man of Uzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hal', 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked 
Scawl, 

Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're 

thinkin, 
A certain Bardie's ran tin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him 
linkin, 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 
An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake .' 










THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



33 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 
POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 




As Mailie an' her lambs thegither, 
Was ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's ; 
He saw her days were near hand 

ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na 

mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak. 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 



'O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

1 Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

'Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
An' ay was guid to me an' mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' 
him. 

' O, bid him save their harmless 
lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' 

knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn. 



' An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' 

steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great Forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the 

sheers ; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're 

dead. 
'My poor toop-lamb, my son an' 

heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

' An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop ; 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

'And now, my bairns, wi' my last 

breath 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my Master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my 

blether.' 



This said, poor Mailie turn'd her 
head, 
An' closed her een amang the dead ! 



34 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 



Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your 

nose; 
Our Bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 
Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or make our Bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
In Mailie dead. 



Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy 
him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh 
him, 

Than Mailie dead. 



I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense ; 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 
Sin' Mailie's dead. 



Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the 
knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 



She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 
For her forbears were brought in 
ships, 

Frae yont the Tweed : 
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 



Wae worth the man who first did 

shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 
Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 
For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie's dead ! 




TO JAMES SMITH. 

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! 

Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society ! 

I owe thee much. Blair. 



Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts. 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 



For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



35 



That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote, ' The Man.' 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancie yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
I iae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for need- 

f u' cash ; 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has blest me with a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid, black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, ' Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

1 There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their 
debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages. 

Then farewel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy 
ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 



I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' Death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living sound an' hale ; 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave Care o'er side ! 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 

Is a' enchanted fairy-land, 

Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-an' forty's speel'd, 
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the 

gloamin, 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 

The joy of joys ! 

O life 1 how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorn- 
ing, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warn- 
ing, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves: 
And tho' the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 





WMMm 




■sj^r 




36 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; 
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the 
race, 

And seize the prey ; 
Then canie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads ob- 

servin ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, 
They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complain- 
ing ! 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, ' Ye Pow'rs ! ' and warm 

implore, 
' Tho' I should wander Terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 
Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards, 

And Maids of Honour ; 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

' A Title, Dempster merits it ; 
A Garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 



Gie Wealth to same be-ledger'd Cit, 
In cent per cent ; 

But gie me real, sterling Wit, 
And I'm content. 

'While Ye are pleased to keep me 

hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and. Prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless- blooded, calm, and 

cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! 
fool! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces!- 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise ; 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
The rattling squad : 

1 see you upward cast your eyes — 

Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content with You to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



37 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; 
But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, 
the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day 
Levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] 



Guid-mornin to your Majesty ! 

May heaven augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see ; 

A humble Bardie wishes ! 
My Hardship here, at your Levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae Birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By many a lord an' lady ; 
1 God save the King ! ' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The Poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

For me ! before a Monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on Your Grace, 

Your Kingship to bespatter; 
There's monie waur been o' the Race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than You this day. 

'Tis very true, my sovereign King, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But Facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your Royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 



Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ; 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted Ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear that with the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, God's sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonie barges 

An' boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection; 
An' may Ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great Birth-day. 





38 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




Hail, Majesty most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please Ye, 
Will Ye accept a compliment 

A simple Bardie gies Ye ? 
Thae bonny bairntime Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release Ye 

Frae care that day. 



For you, young Potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling 
sails 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; 
But some day ye may gnaw your- nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That ere ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
Sae, ye may doucely till a Throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, Him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, 
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 

Altho' a ribban at your lug 
Wad been a dress completer : 



As ye disown yon paughty dog 
That bears the Keys of Peter, 

Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 
Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the Mitre 

Some luckless day. 



Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim 

An', large upon her quarter, 

Come full that day. 



Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', 

Ye royal Lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For Kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German Gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 



God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be through, 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 



DUAN FIRST. 



The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The Curlers quat their roarin play, 
An' hunger'd Maukin taen her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 



The thresher's weary flinging-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 




THE POEMS OF BURXS. 



39 



There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld, clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-thing, 
But stringin blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half- 
sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme- 
proof 

Till my last breath — 

When click ! the string the snick did 

draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
And bv my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 
Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was 

crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she 
blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her 

brows, 



I took her for some Scottish Muse, 
By that same token ; 

And come to stop these reckless vows, 
Would soon been broken. 

A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with Honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonie Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and 
clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, 
threw 

A lustre grand; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well known Land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were 

tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the 
coast 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 
The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far- 

fetch'd floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 
With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient Borough rear'd her head ; 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a Race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 





40 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




By stately tow'r or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of Heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seemed to muse, some seem'd 
to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a Race heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd 
steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour, mark him 

well! 
Bold Richardton's heroic swell ; 
The Chief on Sark who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And He whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 



I mark'd a martial Race, pourtray'd 
In colours strong ; 

Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 
They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for Friendship or for Love 

In musing mood,) 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned Sire and Son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw, 

That, to adore. 



Brydon's brave Ward I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a Patriot name on high, 

And Hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 



With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder Sister's air 

She did me greet. 

' All hail ! my own inspired Bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 



' Know, the great Genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As Arts or Arms thev understand, 



wh 



' They Scotia's Race among them share ; 
Some fire the Soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the Patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart: 
Some teach the Bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

' 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal Senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest Patriot lore, 

And grace the hand. 

' And when the Bard, or hoary Sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild, Poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive 




. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



41 



"Hence, Fullarton, the brave and 

young; 
Hence, Dempster's zeal - inspired 

tongue : 
I lence, sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His " Minstrel lays ; " 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 
The Sceptic's bays. 

'To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

4 When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly 

rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the Shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

' Some hint the Lover's harmless 

wile ; 
Some grace the Maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the Lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

' Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large Man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

4 Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of 
fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame 
Thy natal hour. 

' With future h*)pe, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 



Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase, 
In uncouth rhymes, 

Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 
Of other times. 



' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the North his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar, 

Struck thy young eye. 

'Or when the deep green - mantl'd 

Earth 
Warm-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the Reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

' When youthful Love, warm-blushing 

strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

'I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious 

way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 

4 1 taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 






42 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



' Thou canst not learn, nor can I 

show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape- 
glow; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 
With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

' Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 



' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere 
shine ; 



to 



And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
Nor King's regard, 

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

' To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With Soul erect ; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

' And wear thou this ' — she solemn 

said, 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, 
RIGHTEOUS. 



OR THE RIGIDLY 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither: 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin. 

Solomon. — Eccles. vii. 16. 



O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and 
tell 

Your Neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable Core, 
As counsel for poor mortals, 

That frequent pass douce Wisdom's 
door, 
For glaikit Folly's portals; 



I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 
Would here propone defences, 

Their donsie tricks, their black mis- 
takes, 
Their failings and mischances. 



Ye 



state wi' 



the 



lr s corn- 



see your 
par'd, 
And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 
What maks the mighty differ ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft man* than a' the lave) 
Your better art o' hiding. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



43 



Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What raging must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop: 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail/ 

It maks an unco leeway. 

See Social life and Glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're 
grown 

Debauchery and Drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases; 



A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 
A treacherous inclination — 

But, let me whisper i' your lug, 
Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother Man, 

Still gentlier sister Woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving Why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various 
tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 

An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

Pope. 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil? 
Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel ? 
Or Robinson again grown weel, 

To preach an' read ? 
• Xa, waur than a'! ' cries ilka chiel, 

' Tarn Samson's dead ! ' 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' 
wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To Death, she's dearly paid the 
kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

The Brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 



While by their nose the tears will revel, 
Like ony bead ; 

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel, 
Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock; 
When to the loughs the Curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

He was the king of a' the Core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need; 
But now he lags on Death's hog-score, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 








\^r<jyfr* 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 






Now safe the stately Sawmont sail, 
And Trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson 

hail, 
And Eels weel kend for souple tail, 
And Geds for greed, 
Since dark in Death's fish -creel we 
wail 

Tarn Samson dead ! 



Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a'; 

Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw ; 

Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal Fae is now awa', 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



That woefu' morn be never mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, Och! he gaed and ne'er re- 
turn'd ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like 
waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 

' Tarn Samson's dead ! ' 



Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead! 



When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
* Lord, five ! ' he cry'd, an' owre did 
stagger ; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a 

father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the 
heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming 
blether, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



There, low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! fiae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three vollies let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 
He had twa faults, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg 
gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin! 



i 








THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



45 



HALLOWEEN. 



[The following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood: but for the sake of 
those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is 
cast, notes are added, to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so 
big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity 
makes a striking part of the history of human nature, in its rude state, in all ages and nations; 
and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honour the Author 
with a perusal, to see the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own. R. B.] 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 



Upon that night, when Fairies light 

On Cassilis Downans 2 dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams; 
There, up the Cove, 3 to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 
To sport at night ; 

Amang the bonie, winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear, 
Where Bruce 4 ance rul'd the martial 
ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an 1 some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whyles fast at night. 

Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks s maun a' be sought 
ance : 
They steek their een, an' grape an' wale, 

For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the Bow-kail, 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 




1 Halloween is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings 
are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, 
arc said, on that night, to hold a grand anniversary. R. B. 

2 Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the 
Earls of Cassilis. R. B. 

3 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis 
Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. R. B. 

* The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, 
were Earls of Carrick. R. B. 

S The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a slock, or plant of kail. They must go 
out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with. Its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells — 
the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and 
the taste of the citstoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and 
disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the r?tnts, are placed 
somewhere above the head of the door; and the christian names of the people whom chance brings 
into the house, are, according to the priority of placing the ruuts, the names in question. K. B 



40 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, toddlin, rin, 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custock's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae' mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ; * 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiutlin i' the fause-house 2 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits 3 

Are round an' round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided i 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa, wi' saucy pride, 

An' jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 



Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, 
An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dancin at the view ; 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

An' slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue 4 throws them, 
Right fear't that night. 

An' aye she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid Lord ! but she was quaukin ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier trfat night. 



1 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the 
third stalk wants the tap-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question 
will come to the marriage-bed any thing but a maid. R. B. 

2 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack -builder, by means 
of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is 
fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a Fause-house. R. B. 

3 Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and the lass to each particular nut, 
as they lay them in the fire ; and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or start from beside 
one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be. R. B. 

4 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, 
all alone, to the kihi, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn: wind it in a new clue 
off the old one; and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; demand, Wha 
hands? i.e., who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the christian 
and surname of your future spouse. R. B. 






THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



47 



Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

I Will ye go wi' me, Graunie ? 
I'll eat the apple 1 at the glass, 

I I gat frae uncle Johnie : ' 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt, 
Her bravv new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

* Ye little Skelpie-limmer's face ! 

1 1 daur you try sic sportin, 
' As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

4 For him to spae your fortune ? 
' Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

4 Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
1 For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

4 An liv'd an' di'd deleeret, 

4 On sic a night. 

4 Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

4 1 mind't as weel's yestreen, 
' I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

' I was na past fyfteen : 
4 The simmer had been cauld and 
wat, 

' An' stuff was unco' green ; 
4 An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

1 An' just on Halloween 

4 It fell that night. 



4 Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

4 A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
' His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

4 That liv'd in Achmacalla ; 
4 He gat hemp-seed, 2 I mind it weel, 

4 An' he made unco light o't ; 
' Hut monie a day was by himscl, 

' He was sae sairly frighted 

4 That vera night.' 



Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense : 
The auld guidman raught down the 
pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

4 Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
4 An' her that is to be my lass, 

4 Come after me an' draw thee 

4 As fast this night.' 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheary; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld come rinnin out, 

An' hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M 4 Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop! she trotted thro' them a'; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 



1 Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions 
say, you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be 
seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. R. B. 

2 Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed; harrowing it with any thing you 
can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, 
I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee.' Look 
Over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 
of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, ' come after me, and shaw thee,' that is, show thyself: 
in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, ' come after me, and 
harrow thee.' K. B. 




&%mt£ 




- 



4» 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 

To winn three wechts o' naething ; * 
But for to meet the Deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the Herd a pickle nits, 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch-, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 
That vera night. 

She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw. 

An' owre the threshold ventures , 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ratton rattl'd up the wa', 

An' she cry'd, Lord preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice 2 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome Carlin; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 

Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 




She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 

Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn, 3 
To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brachens on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The Deil, or else an' outler Quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three 4 are ranged ; 
And ev'ry time great care is taen, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's*year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 



1 This charm must likewise be performed unperceived, and alone. You go to the darn, and 
open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger, that the being, about 
to appear, may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in 
winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a ivecht ; and go through all the 
attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an ap- 
parition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the 
figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life. R. B. 

2 Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. 
The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future 
conjugal yoke-fellow. R. B. 

3 You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring or rivulet, 
where ' three lairds' lands meet,' and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, 
and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake; and some time near midnight, an ap- 
parition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, 
as if to dry the other side of it. R. B. 

4 Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the third empty: blind- 
fold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: 
if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony, a 
maid: if in the foul, a widow: if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage 
at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. R. B. 




" In order, on the dean hearth-stane, 
The luggies three are ranged." — Page 48. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



49 



Wi" merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
And unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and 
cheary ; 



Till butt'rd So'ns, 1 wi' fragrant lunt, 
Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 

Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 
They parted aff careerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 



When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The verra girdle rang. 



First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
An' aye he gies the towsie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 

Just like an aumous dish ; 
Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 

He roar'd this ditty up — 




AIR. 
TUNE — ' SOLDIER'S JOY.' 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
W r hen welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

My 'prentiship I pass'd where my leader breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, 
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witnesses an arm and a limb : 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 



Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Suj 



K. B 






5o 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 



RECITATIVO. 



He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 



A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 
He skirl'd out encore ! 

But up arose the martial chuck, 
And laid the loud uproar. 







AIR. 
TUNE — ' SOLDIER LADDIE.' 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sddger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, etc. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



51 



And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 



Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk 
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 
Between themselves they were sae 
bizzy ; 



At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 
He stoitered up an' made a face ; 

Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzy, 
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave gri- 



AIR. 
TUNE — 'AULD SYR SYMON. 



Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow. 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 



I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad — 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 



And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude Lord, is far dafter than I. 



RECITATIVO. 



Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu ' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in monie a well been dooked ; 



Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman : 



AIR. 
TfNE — ' O, AN* YE WERE DEAD, GU1DMAN. 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn : 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 




^lAAW^ 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's no a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, etc. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawlan' face he feared nane, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, etc. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every ane, 
They've hang'd my braw John High- 
landman. c . , 

Sing, hey, etc. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd nae higher), 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee, 

His giga solo. 



AIR. 

WHISTLE OWKE THE LAVE 0*T. 



Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 



At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, etc. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, etc. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' 

charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 
As well as poor Gut-scraper ; 

He taks the fiddler by the beard, 
And draws a roosty rapier — 

He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like a pliver, 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



53 



But tho' his little heart did grieve 
When round the tinkler prest her, 

He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve, 
When thus the Caird address'd her 



AIR. 
TUNE — ' CLOUT THE CAULDRON.' 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian 
ground 
In this my occupation ; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I 
march'd 
To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the s;old, etc. 



Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin', 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and 
houp, 

And by that dear Kilbagie, 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, etc. 



RECITATIYO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing 
fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 
That play'd a dame a shavie, 

The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 
Behint the chicken cavie. 



Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 
Tho' limpin' wi' the spavie, 

He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 
And shor'd them Dainty Davie 
O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 
His sang that night. 



AIR. 

TUNE — ' FOR A' THAT, AND A* THAT.' 

I am a bard of no regard 
Wi' gentlefolks, an' a' that ; 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that, 
And twice as meikle's a' that; 

I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, etc. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, etc. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, an' a' that ; 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, etc. 






54 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the 
Sex!" 
I like the jads for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome tiil't, for a' that. 

recitativo. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd 

their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack, an' wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best ; 

He, rising, rejoicing, 
Between his twa Deborahs, 

Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 
TUNE — ' JOLLY MORTALS. FILL YOUR GLASSES.' 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing : 



CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

Wha, is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 
A fig, etc. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, etc. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, etc. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, etc. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 

A fig, etc. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are. 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you, 
From seasons such as these? 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r, 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift ; 



Shakespeare 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 55 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 



List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, 

Beneath a scar. 



Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole — 



'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
' And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
1 Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
' Not all your rage, as now, united shows 

' More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

'Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
'Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows! 
'See stern oppression's iron grip, 

' Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
' Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

' Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
'Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
'Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 











SJ VV r 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 









' How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 
' The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
' With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
' Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
' And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

' Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
' A creature of another kind, 
' Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
' Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below! 

' Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
' With lordly honour's lofty brow, 

' The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
'Is there, beneath love's noble name, 
' Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

' To bless himself alone ! 
1 Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

' To love-pretending snares, 
' This boasted honour turns away, 
' Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
' Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
' Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
' She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
' And with a mother's fear shrinks at the rocking blast ! 



' Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 

' Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 

' Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap ! 

' Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 

' Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 

' Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 

' But shall thy legal rage pursue 

' The wretch, already crushed low 

' By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! ' 




l§£*3 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



57 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALU- 
TATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE 

NEW YEAR. 




A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' 
knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gane like ony staggie 
Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie, 

A bonie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to 
raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like onie bird. 



It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 



When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonie bride ; 



An' sweet an gracefu' she did ride, 
Wi' maiden air ! 

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 
For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 



When thou an' I were young and 

skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' 
skrieigh 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
An' ca't thee mad. 



When thou was corn't, an' I was 

mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their 
mettle, 

An' gart them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

0' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 




58 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 
On guid March-weather, 

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 
For days thegither. 

Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' 

fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd 
brisket, 

Wi' pith an* pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, 
An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were 

deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap, 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 
For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thoc never reestit; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae face't it ; 
Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 



My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax raae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae 

wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER 
NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beas- 

tie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle, 
At me, thy poor, earth-born compan- 
ion, 

An' fellow-mortal ! 



I doubt na, whiles, but thou may 

thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun 

live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ; 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell an' keen ! 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



59 



Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Xow thou's turn'd out, for a' thy 
trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld! 



But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' 
men 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear ! 






EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond 

blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down, to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely, westlin jingle. 
"While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r, 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands 
rant, 
And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mair spier na, nor fear na,' 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg ; 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 



January, 1784. 

i To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could mak us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a 
taste 
Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sraa' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hal' ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and 

woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 





POEMS OF BURNS. 





It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle, mair: 
It's no in books," it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in' the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang; 
The heart aye's the part aye, 
That maks us right or wrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless, 
Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 
They mak us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ilk 
Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
( To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 



There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name ; 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

O all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, . 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 
O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin, rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An rin' an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 




OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe ! 

Home. 



thou pale Orb, that silent shines, 
While care -untroubled mortals 

sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 
The faintly-marked, distant hill : 

I joyless view thy trembling horn, 
Reflected in the gurgling rill : 

My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 
Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, 
cease ! 

Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 
For ever bar returning peace ! 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame ; 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested Pow'rs above ; 
The promis'd father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments 
flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's 
charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it! is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 



Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will 
soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them 
less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly -treasur'd thoughts em- 
ploy'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warns th' approaching 
day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly 
thief: 
Or, if I slumber, Fancy, chief, 

Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright: 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 





62 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




O ! thou bright Queen, who o'er th' 
expanse 
Now highest reign'st, with boundless 
sway ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat 
high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 
To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance 
set! 
Scenes, never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure "torn, 
Life's weary vale I'll wander 
thro'; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll 
mourn 
A faithless woman's broken vow. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 



INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. OF AYR. 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short but simple annals of the Poor. 

Gray. 

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning train o' craws to their repose: 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 63 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' Oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

1 An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! ' 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 







O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
' If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ! 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
A' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And ' Let us worship God ! ' he says, with solemn air. 



They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian thrills are tame; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



a y 



ft 5 



S 3 












THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



65 



The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his Head ; 
How His first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's com- 
mand. 



Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 



66 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God : ' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ; 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert, 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



DESPONDENCY. 



AN ODE. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with 

care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er, 
But with the closing tomb ! 




Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are 
ply'd, # > 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



6/ 



How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant 
brought, 
A faint-collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 
His thoughts to Heav'n on 
high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 



But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's 
maze, 
To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age ! 



WINTER. 



A DIRGE. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving 
forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes 
down, 

And roars frae bank to brae : 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 



"The sweeping blast, the sky o'er- 
cast," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May ■ 



The tempest's howl, it soothes my 
soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 



Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty 
scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be 
best, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want (Oh ! do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 






When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning as I wander d forth 

Along the Banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest 
thou? 

Began the rev'rend Sage ! 
Does thirst of wealth thy step con- 
strain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of Man. 



The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That Man was made to mourn. 



O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law, 

That Man was made to mourn. 



Look not alone on youthful prime, 
Or manhood's active might ; 

Man then is useful to his kind, 
Supported is his right, 



A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry land 

Are wretched and forlorn: 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That Man was made to mourn. 



Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make 
selves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 



See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty, or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn ? 



* 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



6 9 



Vet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 



O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn • 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 




ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST 
INDIES. 



A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live an' never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our bailie's gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's taen anither shore, 

An' owre the sea ! 

The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him: 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless 
him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy 

bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as onie wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear : 
'Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her Laureat monie a year 

That's owre the sea ! 



He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cum- 

mock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin', 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin', 

He dealt it free : 
The Muse was a' that he took pride 
in, 

That's owre the sea. 

[ Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 
Ye'll find him ay' a dainty chiel, 
And fu' o' glee ; 
! He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

j Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! 
1 Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
1 But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonilie ! 
j I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 





7o 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 



Where human weakness has come 
short, 
Or frailty stept aside, 
Do Thou, All-Good! for such Thou 
art, 
In shades of darkness hide. 



Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good; and Goodness 
still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION 



Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ! 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between: 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms ; 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence ! ' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter Heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

And still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controuling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine, 
For all unfit I feel my powers be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE 

NIGHT, 

THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE 

SLEPT. 



O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st 
above, 
I know Thou wilt me hear ; 
When for this scene of peace and 
love, 
I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare ; 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

O, bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 



Their hope, their stay, their darling 
youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth 

Up to a parent's wish. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or late they reach that 
coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in Heaven ! 





THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH 

PSALM. 



O Thou, the first, the greatest 
friend 
Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever 
been 
Their stay and dwelling-place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their 
heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand, 
Before this ponderous globe itself, 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd and still up- 
holds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 



Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

That yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, 
man, 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again Thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought ! ' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 










fmbu 





THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



A PRAYER, UNDER THE 
PRESSURE OF VIOLENT 
ANGUISH. 

O Thou Great Being.* what Thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey Thy high behest. 

Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then, man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore : 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And like the rootless stubble tost, 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



TO MISS LOGAN, WITH 
BEATTIE'S POEMS, 

FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. I, 1 787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps too true ; 

But may, dear Maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 

TO RUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning 
Round my devoted head. 

And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold-mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face, 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace! 




stf* 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



73 



EPISTLE TO A. YOUNG FRIEND. 



MAY, 1786. 



I laxg hae thought, my youthfu' 
friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps, it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say, men are villains a'; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But Och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpened, sly inspection. 



The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it ; 
I wave the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard o' concealing ; 
But Och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden 
smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justify'd by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended; 
An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 



74 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Adieu, dear, amiable Youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be want- 
ing! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 



In ploughman phrase, ' God send you 
speed,' 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may ye better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' Adviser ! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1 786. 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem. 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonie gem. 



Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward -springing, blythe, to 
greet 

The purpling east. 



Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens 

yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun 

shield, 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 
Unseen, alane. 



There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 



Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise; 

But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wants and woes has 

striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's 

fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's 
weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



75 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 



His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 
Warm-reekin, rich ! 



Then, horn for horn they stretch an' 

strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 



Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ! 



Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither'd rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 



But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 
Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your 

care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkingware 

That jaups in luggies; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, 

Gie her a Haggis. 



A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 



This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' 

them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a 

wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'riii. 
It's just sic Poet, an' sic Patron, 




■JmH 



v^.tvj^^p^ 





7 6 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ! 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only — he's no begun yet. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should 
be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
EVn that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' 

that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in 

need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whase stay and trust 

is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And haud their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; 
No matter — stick to sound believing. 




Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half- 
mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' 

faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! 
When vengeance draws the sword in 

wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies 

him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry 

moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier 

groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 

1 maist forgat my Dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray : 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin I hae little skill o't; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill 

o't; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you, Sir. — 

• May ne'er misfortune's gowlingbark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 





May Kennedy's far-honoured name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Live bonie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' 

able, 
To serve their King and Country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual 

* rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites besto\ 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and 
favours, 



But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures 

fly him, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor ? 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognize my Master dear, 
If friendless, low, we meet together, 
Then, sir, your hand — my Friend and 

Brother ! 



TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S 
BONNET, AT CHURCH. 



Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your 
dinner 

On some poor body. 

vSvvith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and 

sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 
In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare un- 
settle 

Your thick plantations. 



Now haud ye there, ye're out o' 

sight, 
Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose 

out, 
As plump and gray as onie grozet; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty cloze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surpris'd to spy 

You on an auld wife's flannen 

toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

Oil's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie, 

How daur ve do't ? 





78 



THE POEMS OE BURNS. 



(), Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin ! 



O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 







Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's 
feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden 
tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her 
rod; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim : 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy 
shine ; 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying 
tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : 
Alas how changed the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring 
roam! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 

Wild beats my heart, to trace your 
steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's -loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers 
led! 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



79 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD 

BARD. 



SCOTTISH 



While briers an' woodbines budding 

green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my Muse, 
This freedom, in an unknown frien', 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin, 

To ca' the crack and weave our 

stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin, 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the 
breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae 

weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ! ' 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't; 
Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 



April i st, 1785. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and 

graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae Poet, in a sense, 

But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, 

An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang ? ' 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon' o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and 

stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out 
asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnas- 
sus 

By dint o' Crreek ! 







a^g^jp^J 



jew^o. 




80 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learning I desire ; 

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My Muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a t spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Ferguson's, the bauld an' slee, 
Or bright Laprailcs, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel, 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends, an' folks that wish me 
well, 

They sometimes roose me ; 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 



There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to 

me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae 
me, 

At dance or fair ; 
Maybe some ither thing they gie me 
They weel can spare. 



But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware 
Wi' ane anither. 



The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whit- 
ter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa ye selfish, warly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give 
place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness 

warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others,' 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But to conclude my lang epistle, 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 



While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor, 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 



April 21st, 1785. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would na write. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hissie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 

This month an' mair, 
That trouth my head is grown right 
dizzie, 

An' something sair.' 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 

1 Conscience,' says I, 'ye thowless jad ! 

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

'Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly ! ' 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 

Quoth I, 'Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it ! ' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly 
neither, 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 
Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' 

carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi gleesome touch! 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp ; 

She's but a bitch. 

She's gien me mony a jirt an' fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; 
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lvart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow! 



Now comes the sax an' twentieth 

simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year : 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 

Behind a kist to lie an' sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent ; 

An' muckle wame, 
In some bit Brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffi'd sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank 
bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ? 

' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 

Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride ! ' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich an' great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heaven ! that's no the 
gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he ! ' 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers of the ragged Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine, 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 




82 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' 

growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 



Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' 
joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 



OCHILTREE. 



I gat your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 

Your flatterin strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd 
it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 

As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 



May, 1785. 

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Bardies o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae Poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkend-of isle, 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An' cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies 
shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae suthron billies. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 

O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods, 

Wi' wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin burn's meander, 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' 

strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, ' mv rhyme-composing brith- 

er!' 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to 

ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 



While highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid, fat 

braxies ; 
While terra firma, on her axis, 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New-Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft have been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to 
balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid 
Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the 

moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewin, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud an'- lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing mis- 

teuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 








X^fKJ^f^^ 









8 4 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 







This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; 
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' 
storm' d, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' 

nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 
Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their 
tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the 
sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
The lairds forbad, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruined stick-an- 

stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 
Just quite barefac'd. 



Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are 

bleatin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' 

sweatin ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 
By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
An' stay ae month amang the moons, 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to 

lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it 
wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch,. 
An' when the new-light billies see 
them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a 'moonshine matter ; ' 

But tho' dull-prose folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we Bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, ENCLOSING SOME 

POEMS. 



O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin, 

Your dreams an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, druken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thro'. 



Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear 
it, 

The lads in black ; 
But your curst wit, when it comes 
near it, 

Rives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're 

skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' 

claithing 





K>*« 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



35 



O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them 
naithing 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming 

ware, 
A' that I bargained for, an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect, 
Yon sang, ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her 

wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring, 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaen an' sair't the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor, wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But, Deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 



Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay, o'er moor an' 
dale, 

For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea ; 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce thro' the feathers; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 




WRITTEN IN FRIARS -C ARSE HERMITAGE, 
NITH-SIDE. 



ON 



Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 



As Youth and Love, with sprightly 

dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her syren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's 

cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 



86 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou 

scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful Peace, with linnet 

song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and 

wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not — art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 



To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Bedesman of Nith-side. 

GLENRIDDEL HERMITAGE, JUNE 28TH, 
I788. FROM THE MS. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour, 
Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor gleam, 
Fame, an idle restless dream : 
Peace, the tenderest flower of spring • 
Pleasures, insects on the wing ; 
Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own ; 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepar'd, 
Guard, wherever thou canst guard ; 
But thy utmost duly done, 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of Man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence, with lowly heart, 
Him whose wondrous work thou art: 
Keep His goodness still in view, 
Thy trust, and Thy example too. 
Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Bedesman of Nithe-side. 



ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. 






Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 



strophe. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting 
grace ? 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of everlast- 
ing rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither 

bends ? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper 

skies ; 



'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is 
driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a con- 
science clear, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to 
Heav'n. 




ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY 
FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

But now his radiant course is run, 

For Matthew's course was bright ; 
His soul was like the glorious sun, 

A matchless, Heav'nly Light. 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's seP shall 
mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 
Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, 
Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
My wailing numbers ! 



Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down vour glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance 
shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 




r^w^ 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





m 



Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick 
brood; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled 

teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 



Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' 

day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 



O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 



Mourn, spring, thou darling of the 

year! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head 
Thy gay, green flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ! 



Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 



Thou winter, hurling thro' the air 
The roaring blast, 

Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of 

light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 
My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his 
flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown 

river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 
The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep thee ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger, my story's brief, 
And truth I shall relate, man ; 

1 tell nae common tale o' grief, 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at Fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart ; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy 
praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 








THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



8 9 



If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man; 

The sympathetic tear manu fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 



If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 




LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE 
APPROACH OF SPRING. 



Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out-owre the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal 
streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now laverocks wake the merry 
morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 



Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in 
glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonie France, 
Where happy I hae been, 

Fu' lightly rase I m the morn, 
As blythe lay down at e'en : 



the 



And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of 
woe 

Frae woman's pitying ee. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's 
friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the 
spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 





go 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great master-piece design'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth • 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines: 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more ; 
Some spumy, fiery, ignus fatuus matter, 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a Poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work, 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



A title, and the only one I claim, 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share so soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend ! " 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor 'will do' wait upon 'I should' — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half-blushing, half-afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen-pence a week I've lived before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift ; 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 










>J^ 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRA, ESQ. 



Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, deject'd, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) : 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor Misery, hearkning to her tale), 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. — 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife, 
The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life. 



>pfie 




Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 

And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd, 

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son, 

Dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks " do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 

And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care." 

So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 

Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train, 

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 

In equanimity they never dwell, 

By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 









LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCALRN. 



The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 
By fits the sun's departing beam 

Look'd on the fading yellow woods 
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding 
stream : 




Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, 
Laden with years and meikle pain, 

In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
Whom death had all untimely 
taen. 







94 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down 
with years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 
My noble master lies in clay ; 

The flow'r amang our barons bold, 
His country's pride, his country's 

stay: 



In weary being now I pine, 
For a' the life of life is dead, 

And hope has left my aged ken, 
On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the Bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest 
gloom. 

" In Poverty's low barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me 
round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

No ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless Bard, and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ? 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ? 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! " 



LINES, SENT TO 
WBITEFORD, BART 



SIR JOHN WBITEFORD, OF 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 



Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthty fear'st, 

To thee this votive offering I impart, 

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



95 



The friend thou valued'st, I, the Patron, lov'd; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 



A TALE. 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full in this Buke. 

Gawin Douglas. 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' getting fou and unco happy, 
We thinkna on the Jang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonie lasses). 

O Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October^ 
Ae market-day thou was na sober; 
That ilka melder, wi the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on : 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how monie counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Tam had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



97 



By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane: 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll : 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — ■ 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 




WM1 







9 8 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tam ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwooddie hags wad spean a fozd, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kend thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant all was dark : 




So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow." — Page 99. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When, " Catch the thief ! " resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig : 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 




ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINA- 
TIONS THRO 1 SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither 

Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ; — 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 



If in your bounds ye chance to 

light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 




100 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's ! col- 
leaguin 

At some black art. — 



Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or 

chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep read in hell's black 
grammar, 

Warlocks and witches, 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 
Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And taen the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets, 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-back- 
ets, 

Before the Flood. 




Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fen- 
der; 
That which distinguished the gen- 
der 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 
Weel shod wi' brass. 



Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or 
three 

Gude fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and 

prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 



WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 



April, 1789. 



Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 






\* J- T" .- * '• * 



r^ff POEMS OF BURNS. 



101 



Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH-SHIRE, WITH BAYS. 



While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes Eolian strains between ; 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade ; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 

And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed ; 



While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow 
flows, 
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of 
snows : 



So long, sweet Poet of the year, 
Shall bloom that wreath thou well 
hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 
Proclaims that Thomson was her 
son. 



"'■ ■•-.'■: 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY, 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, 

AUTHOR. 



PRESENTED TO HER BY THE 




Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely Flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 



May'st thou long, sweet crimson 

gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave 

birth. 



102 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smil'd ; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 



Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That Nature finest strung : 

So Isabella's heart was form'd, 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound He gave; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO 
THE NOBLE DUKE OF A THOLE. 



My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry - withering, waste my foamy 
streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes 
amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 



Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy 
rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent 
smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring 
trees, 

And bonie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly, then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen monie a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, Music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite 
clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive Autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone-descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care : 



The flow'rs shall vie in all their 
charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms, 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may Old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses 
The grace be — "Athole's honest 
men, 

And Athole's bonie lasses ! " 




THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 

A SATIRE. 

A BALLAD TUNE — " PUSH ABOUT THE BRISK BOWL." 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, 
" That what is not sense must be nonsense." 



Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon onie pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 




104 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle, 

And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. 



Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 




Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 






Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose, ye hae made but toom roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark, 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your " liberty's chain" and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 



Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, 
And the book no the waur, let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 




■ I • \ -" 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



105 



Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? what mean ye ? 

If ye'Tl meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, 

Ammunition you never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH ACE, 

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT 

DISORDER. 





My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies monie a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 



Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the numerous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 




io6 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Toothach, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 



O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmont's Toothach ! 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 



OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, 

TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 

Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 

Till fam'd Breadalbane opens on my view. — 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 

The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides ; 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 

The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 

The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 

The palace rising on his verdant side ; 

The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste ; 

The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 

The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 

The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 






Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods ■ 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 

And l'ook through Nature with creative fire ; 

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, 

Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 

Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, 

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



107 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. 




Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 
And ward o' mony a prayer, 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw. 



May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds. 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 
Fair in the summer morn : 

Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds ; 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 

Dim-seen, thro' rising mists, and ceaseless show'rs, 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 

Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 

And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils — 





SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET 



AULD NEEBOR, 

I'M three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair, 
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter 

Some less maun sair. 



Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairs. 








THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words tae gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't 
wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 



Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' 

livin', 
Nae cares ta gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



THE INVENTORY, 



IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MANDATE SENT BY A SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, 
REQUIRING A RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF HORSES, SERVANTS, CARRIAGES, 
ETC., KEPT. 



Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 
Imprimis then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle ; 
My han' afore's a gude auld has-been, 
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been ; 
My han' ahin's a weel gaun fillie, 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie, 
An' your auld burrough monie a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance whan in my wooing pride 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too !) 
I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, 
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. 
My furr-ahin's a wordy beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd, — 



The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 

A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie. 

Foreby a Cowte, o' Cowte's the wale, 

As ever ran afore a tail ; 

If he be spar'd to be a beast, 

He'll draw me fifteen pun at least. — 

Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, 
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ; 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg, an' baith the trams, are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le, 
An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 
Wee Davock hauds the nowte in 

fother. 
I rule them as I ought discreetly, 
An' often labour them completely. 
An' ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly ; 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



IO9 



Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely langer than my leg, 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, 
As fast as onie in the dwalling. — 

I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) 
I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils dare na touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel con- 
tented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the Lord, ye'se get them 'a thegither. 



And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare, 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie 

mair ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit ! — 
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that, 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your buke, 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it, 
Day an' date as under notet : 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

Robert Burns. 

Mossgiel, February 22nd, 1786. 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
' This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see me more ! " 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 




IIO THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

1 By the gods of the ancients ! ' Glenriddel replies, 
' Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.' 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 

And e'vry new cork is a new spring of joy ; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ; 
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 





THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Ill 



The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend ? 
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light ; 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink: — 
' Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! 

•Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! ' 



SKETCH 



INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 



How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white ; 
How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing ; If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I — let the Critics go whistle ! 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou, first of our orators, first of our wits ; 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 

No man, with the half of 'em, e'er went far wrong ; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 

A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 

For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks, 

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, 

With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 

All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling Passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him ? 

Pull the string, Ruling Passion, the picture will show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him ! 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 

And think Human-nature they truly describe ; 

Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more in the wind, 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan 

In the make of the wonderful creature called Man, 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 

Nor even two different shades of the same, 

Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother, 

Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, 
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. 
My much-honor'd Patron, believe your poor Poet, 
Your courage much more than your prudence you show it, 
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle, 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle ; 
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, 
He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can atchieve 'em, 
It is not, outdo him — the task is, out-thieve him. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 




Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want 

ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald mysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair 

one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear 
on, 

E'en tried the body. 




Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me ! 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
They maun hae brose and brats o' 

duddies ; 
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud 
is — 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh 
woodies, 

Before they want. 





w «w 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



113 



Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than monie ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the 

van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man *! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 



But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time), 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a daintie chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld coCkie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Burns. 



PROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity ; 

Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, " 

I come to wish you all a good new-year ! 

Old Father Time deputed me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day." 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — " think ! " 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — now! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 




H4 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF 
MONBODDO. 



Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 



Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 



In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 



Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres 

But the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 



The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ; 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN 




TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 



Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 
And, faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I 

wanted ? 
This monie a day I've grain'd and 

gaunted, 
To ken what French mischief was 

brewin' ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Jo- 
seph, 
If Venus yet had got his nose off ; 
Or how the collieshangie works 
Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 
Or if the Swede, before he halt, 
Would play anither Charles the Twalt ; 
If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 
How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingin' ; 
Plow libbet Italy was singin' ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame, 
In Britain's court kept up the game : 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er 

him ! 
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 



How daddie Burke the plea was cook- 
in', 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 
Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera- 
girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails ; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser, — 
A' this and mair I never heard of ; 
And, but for you, I might despair'd 

of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
And pray a' guid things may attend you ! 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



REMONSTRANCE TO THE GENTLEMAN 
TO WHOM THE FOREGOING POEM 
WAS ADDRESSED. 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 

For instance, your sheet, man, 

(Though glad I'm to see't, man), 
I get it no ae day in ten. — R. B. 





LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER, 



This wot ye all whom it con- 
cerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 



I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-f ou' mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the 
quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 









THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 
Like some portentous omen ; 



Except good sense and social glee, 

An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked r. ought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. 



While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings ; 
While quacks of State must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp The Rights of Man ; 
Amid the mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is, Protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — but needless here is caution, 
To keep that Right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis Decorum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a Lady's quiet ! — 
Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred ! 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct, neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best our dearest, 
That Right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 




"*W^ 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



117 



Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal Love. — 
Sighs, tears, smiles, glances, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

Then truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ! 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah! 9a ira! The Majesty of Woman! 



ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 




Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed , 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
' Ma'am, let me tell you,' quoth my man of rhymes, 
' I know your bent — these are no laughing times : 
Can you — but, Miss, I own I have my fears — 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ? 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance, 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?' 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world shall know it , 
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet! 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 





n8 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck- 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap ■ 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 



Here, where the Scotish Muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ! 

But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song ! 

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest Want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals ! 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 



Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae 

swerv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud, the' trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd- 
sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 



In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's 

catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin 
patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 
That ape their betters. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle 

mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 



Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane; come forrit, honest 

Allan! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantal- 
lan, 

But thou's for ever ' 



Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 
In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 



Nae gowden stream thro myrtles 
twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 
Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's 
lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits ; but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 
The sternest move. 




WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF THE LAST 
EDITION OF HIS POEMS, 

PRESENTED TO THE LADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED UNDER THE 
NAME OF CHLORIS. 



'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, 
fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse 



Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant 
arms) 

To join the friendly few. 



Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempest's lower, 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 



Since life's gay scenes must charm no 
more, 
Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in 
store — 
The comforts of the mind ! 



Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 



The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 




120 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



''\-0^0t£$' 



I 






POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love, was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 



Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 




My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 



Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 



But why of this epocha make such a fuss, 
That gave us the Hanover stem. 

If bringing them over was lucky for us, 
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 



But, loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 



Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



121 



SKETCH— NEW YEAR DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



This Day Time winds th' exhausted 

chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer, 
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with 

Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute bor- 
row — 
— That grandchild's cap will make to- 
morrow — 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
1 Another year is gone for ever.' 
And what is this day's strong sugges- 
tion ? 
4 The passing moment's all we rest on ! ' 
Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 



Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd 

lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may, a few years must, 
Repose us in the silent dust ; 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies ; 
That on this frail, uncertain state 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as Heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as Misery's woful night. — 
Since then, my honor'd, first of 
friends, 
On this poor being all depends; 
Let us th' important Now employ, 
And live as those that never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honors 
crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight — life's sorrows to repulse ; 
A sight — pale Envy to convulse ;) 
Others may claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright re- 
ward. 




EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE 
ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd : 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 







122 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR 

TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN 

SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 




How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness, denied her esteem. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



123 




SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, 
ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL. 

April, 1794. 
No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 

Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And sooth the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDED S BIRTHDAY, 
NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 



Old Winter with his frosty beard, 

Thus once to Jove his prayer pre- 
ferr'd, — 

' What have I done of all the year, 

To bear this hated doom severe ? 

My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 

Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow ; 

My dismal months no joys are crown- 
ing. 

But spleeny English,hanging,drowning. 



Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 
To counterbalance all this evil ; 
Give me, and I've no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day ! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot 

match me ; ' 
' 'Tis done ! ' says Jove ; so ends my 

story, 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. 



Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer, 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ; 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 



And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare : 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 







•>sa 





THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 



Accept the gift a friend sincere 
Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear, 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear, 
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever ! 



You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay weel 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude — then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply-ranklin' sorrow. 

Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee, 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee — 
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE 
FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY. 

17th December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 

And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind. 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 

A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 



Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



SONNET, 



ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 
25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R.B. AGED 34. 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign 
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



125 



So in lone Poverty's dominion drear 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. 



POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1 796. 



Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or 

steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle Deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 

That one pound one, I sairly want 

it: 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood 
dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moan- 
ing 

To see the new come laden, groan- 
ing, 



Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 

Domestic peace and comforts crowning 
The hale design. 

POSTCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been 

licket : 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's 
way 

The fumes of wine infuriate send; 
(Not moony madness more astray ;) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend? 



Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes out- 
live? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 




as 



126 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1 796. 



My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain, and care, and sickness 

spare it; 
And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick 

her, 
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck 

her; 
Oh ! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker 
I've found her still, 
Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 
'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast 
saut on, 

He's aff like fire. 



Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it isna fair, 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 



Poor man, the trie, aft bizzies by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee 

nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks with 

j°y> 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 



Soon heels-o'er-gowdy ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting 

drivel, 
Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 



An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend 

truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide 

youth : 



of 



of 



Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in 

bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of 

this. 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



127 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 




I call no Goddess to inspire my 

strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that 

feigns; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit 

burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons recorded, goodness ever 

new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 



Thou orb of day ! thou other paler 

light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of 

night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind 

efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring 

spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnish't 

crest, 
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest 
Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 
Willie's awa ! 

O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa! 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and 

fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to 
mools, 

Willie's awa! 



The brethren o' the Commerce-Chau- 

mer 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clam- 
our; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 
Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we se'e his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour, 
And toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw, 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

Now worthy Gregory's latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
M'Kenzie, Stuart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna 

quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewildered 

chicken 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 
Willie's awa ! 




128 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinin' blellum, 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their 
bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 



May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle 

him 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem 
Fleet wing awa ! 




A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 



O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature 
wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 



And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

Amen! 



INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE 

ERECTED BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 

" Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, 
16th October, 1774." 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
' No storied urn nor animated bust ; ' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 



A VERSE 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON 
TAKING LEAVE AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN 
HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 



When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come ; 

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



129 



LIBERTY. A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of Freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in Freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF 
PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART 

False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore ; 

We solemnise this sorrowing natal-day 
To prove our loyal truth ; we can no more ; 

And owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive low adore. 

Ye honoured mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms 
(What breast of northern ice but warms?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. 



Nor unavenged your fate shall be, 
It only lags the fatal hour ; 

Your blood shall with incessant cry 
Awake at last th' unsparing power; 



130 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale ! 



So vengeance 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUTSSEAUX. 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae 

mair, 
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him : 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't 

him, 
Except the moment that they crush't 

him; 



For sune as chance or fate had husht 
'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 
And counted was baith wight and stark, 
Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than ! 






ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET 



BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE. 



GUIDWIFE, 




I mind it weel, in early date, 
When I was beardless, young and 
blate, 
An' first could thresh the barn, 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa : 

Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast; 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan, or beuk could 
make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 



The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise ; 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aye to speak. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



131 



Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel 

says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
T«o shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 



For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marbled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be more vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 
Marclt, 1787. 



Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny, 
Guid health, hale han's, and weather 

bonie 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags 

Like drivin' wrack; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like onie clerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless 

letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On holy men, 
While Deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 



TO /. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. 13th, 1785. 

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 
To help, or roose us, 

But browster wives an' whiskie stills, 
They are the Muses. 



Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye make objections at it, 

Then han'in nieve someday we'll knotit, 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blithe and witty 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sinn keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quit my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 





TWA HERDS. 



Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, 
But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war. 

Pope 



O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes ? 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O dool to tell ! 
Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russel, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will 
whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 
Sin' I hae min\ 

O, Sirs, whae'er wad hae expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could 

rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminians stank 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank: 
O' sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 



What herd like Russel tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them owre the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like 'villain,' 'hypocrite,' 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' spite, 

Say, ' neither's liein ' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan deep, and Peebles 

shaul, 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and 
cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name, 
I hope frae Heaven to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhey, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



133 



Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mis- 
chief, 
We thought aye death wad bring re- 
lief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our 
beef; 

I meikle dread him. 



And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, ow're a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors, and 
fells, 



Come join your counsels and your skills, 
To cowe the lairds, 

And get the brutes the power themsels 
To choose their herds. 



Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd owre the seas to France ; 

Let him bark there. 



Then Shaw's and D'rymple's elo- 
quence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence. 
M'Quhey's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can 
glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD 
REQUESTED. 

Sept. 17th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cowr 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scour 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 



I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Loose hell upon me. 



134 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than monie scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've us'd him ? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' no a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 




God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But, twenty times, I rather would be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They tak religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



135 



Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 

To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' monie a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join wi' those, 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground ! 
Within thy presbytereal bound, 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too, renown'd, 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honour), 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost 

dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 
Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for onie guid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 



I bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in 

night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burning an' a shinin light, 

To a' this place. 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 






What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get such exaltation ? 
I, wha deserve such just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plung'd me into Hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and 
wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Where damned Devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a' thy flock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearers 

swear, 
And singin there and dancin here, 

Wi' great an' sma' : 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a'. 

But yet, O Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust, 
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

O Lord ! yestreen, thou kens, wi' 

Meg — 
Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 
O ! may it ne'er be a livin plague 

To my dishonour, 
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 

Again upon her. 

Besides I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow; 

But Lord, that Friday I was fou, 

When I came near her, 
Or else thou kens thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 



May be thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should 
turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy hand maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But God confound their stubborn 
face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, 

An' public shame. 

Lord, mind Gavin Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at 

cartes, 
Yet has sae monie takin arts, 
Wi' grit an' sma', 
Frae God's ain priest the people's 
hearts 

He steals awa'. 



An' whan we chasten'd him there- 
fore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laughin at us ; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r 
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr ; 
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it 
bare, 

Upo' their heads ; 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd 

Aiken, 
My very heart and soul are quakin, 
To think how we stood sweatin, shak- 
in, 

An' p — d wi' dread, 
While he, wi' hingin lips an' snakin' 
Held up his head. 








THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



137 



Lord, in the day of vengeance try him ; 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r : 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 



But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

ExcelPd by nane, 
An' a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 



Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His saul has taen some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 



But haud your nine-tail cat a-wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye have nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gane. 

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are. 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 

IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. 



Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 



In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong Necessity compels. 
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



138 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. MAUCHLINE. 



RECOMMENDING A BOY. 



I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to lure the lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 
An' wad hae don't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummies 
nicks, 
An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 
An 'bout a house that's rude an' 
rough, 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na onie fear. 



Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 

Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell ; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Aye when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I ha'e gi'en, 
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 
To meet the Warld's worm : 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the aides an' the fee, 
In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you, 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 




TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

EXTEMPORE LINES ON, RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it ! 





THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



139 



EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE 
COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER. 



Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
' See wha taks notice o' the Bard ! ' 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

' Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million ; 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! ' 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel, 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 

On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 
I independent stand ay. — 



And when those legs to gude, warm 
kail, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the 
breath 

O' monie flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonie lasses baith, 

I'm tald their loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's 
laird, 
The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's 
beard, 
A credit to his country. 



TO TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 



Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran 

Chief! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or 

grief : 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous 

Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest 
morrow, 



May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 
In brunstane stoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are monie, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near 

ye, 

And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye 
fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me. 



•••rrv-:>.- 




^*p\ 





140 



77/^ POEMS OF BURNS. 




VERSES INTENDED TO 
BE WRITTEN BELOW 
A NOBLE EARL'S PIC- 
TURE. 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? 
And whose that generous princely 
mien 

Even rooted foes admire ? 

Stranger, to justly shew that brow, 

And mark that eye of fire, 
Would take His hand, whose vernal 
tints 

His other works admire. 

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 
With stately port he moves ; 

His guardian seraph eyes with awe 
The noble ward he loves. 

Among the illustrious Scottish sons 
That chief thou may'st discern ; 

Mark Scotia's fond returning eye, 
It dwells upon Glencairn. 



TO A LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF 
DRINKING GLASSES. 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, 
As generous as your mind ; 

And pledge me in the generous toast — 
' The whole of human kind ! ' 

' To those who love us ! ' — second fill 
But not to those whom we love ! 

Lest we love those who love not us ! 
A third — ' to thee and me, Love ! ' : 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR, 
1778. 

SKETCH. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're 

born: 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ! 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee 

cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bludie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin, 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 

Ye ministers, come mount the pou- 
pit, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. 

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and daviely they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd 

Regent, 
But, like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man: 
As muckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



141 



THE VOWELS. 



A TALE. 



'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling Vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai ! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face ! ■ 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next, the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdained reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art : 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eti, and kick'd him from his sight. 







SKETCH. 



A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets ; 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive 1'amour ; 




142 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



So travel'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT 

OF FERGUSSON THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S "WORKS PRE- 
SENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH IO/TH, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the Muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



LAMENT, 

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore ; 

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 




No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, 
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore ; 

Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



143 



PROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT- 
NIGHT, DUMFRIES. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin' ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enow in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 

Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 
Where are the Muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 
And after monie a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin ? 
O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, 
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds. 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back! 

For us and for our stage should onie spier, 
' Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?' 









w**v%r*mr® 







144 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 






My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 

We hae the honour to belong to you ! 

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 

But like good mithers, shore before ye strike — 

And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 

For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 

We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 

God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, 
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately Form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. 

4 My patriot son fills an untimely grave ! ' 
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 

' Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! 

* A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. — 





"But fairer still my Delia dawns." — Page 145. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



145 



' I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. - 

' My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name ? 

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

' And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs,' — 
She said, and vanished with the sweeping blast. 



AN ODE. 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 







The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss ! 

For oh ! my soul is parch'd with love! 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF 



OF A COPY OF THE FIRST EDITION [OF HIS POEMS,] WHICH 
SWEET-HEART, THEN MARRIED. 



Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere' 
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, ' 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



146 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE 

CHILD. 





Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter 

fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 
Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonie Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee, 
As dear and near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will, 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 



What tho' they ca' me fornicator, 
An' tease my name in kintra clatter : 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash ; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless 
matter 

To gie ane fash. 



Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the world asklent, 

Which fools may scoff at 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better haff o't. 



An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee, 
If thou be spar'd ; 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee 
thee, 

An' think't weel war'd. 



Gude grant that thou may aye in- 
herit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failins, 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, 

Than stockit mailins. 



. TO MISS TERRIER, 

ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 



Nae heathen name shall I prefix 
Frae Pindus or Parnassus ; 

Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, 
For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times 
three 

Made Homer deep their debtor ; 
But, gi'en the body half an ee, 

Nine Ferriers wad done better ! 



Last day my mind was in a bog, 
Down George's Street I stoited 



A creeping cauld prosaic fog 
My very senses doited. 

Do what I dought to set her free, 

My saul lay in the mire ; 
Ye turned a neuk — I saw your e'e — 

She took the wing like fire ! 

The mournfu' sang I here enclose, 

In gratitude I send you ; 
And wish and pray in rhyme sin- 
cere, 

A' gude things may attend you ! 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



H7 



LETTER TO JOHN GO [/DIE, KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 






O Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dr^d o' black coats and rev'rend 

wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin' glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condi- 
tion; 
Fy, bring Black- Jock, her state physi- 
cian, 

To see her water; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspi- 
cion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco' ripple ; 



Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 
Nigh unto death ; 

See how she fetches at the thrapple, 
An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption, 
Not a' the quacks, with a' their gump- 
tion, 

Will ever mend her, 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presump- 
tion, 

Death soon will end her. 

Tis you and Taylor are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief ; 
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO JAMES TAIT, GLENCONNOR. 



Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconnor; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd. 
I've sent you here by Johnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of Science mir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel. 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you 

strictly, 
Peruse them, an' return them quickly, 



For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Bos- 
ton; 
Till by an' by, if I haud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan : 
Already I begin to try' it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gaspin in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld 
Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down wi' auld grey 

hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 



148 



'«jnuHiiiiin 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



May He who made him still support 

him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort 

him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 
My auld school-fellow, Preacher 
Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 
If he's a parent, lass or boy, 
May he be dad, and Meg the mither 
Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 
An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a ban- 
nock. 
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 
Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 
An' her kind stars hae airted till her 
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 




My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 
Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cau- 
tious, 
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them 

fashous : 
To grant a heart is fairly civil, 
But to grant a maidenhead's the devil. — 
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, 
May guardian angels tak a spell, 
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 
But first, before you see heav'n's glory, 
May ye get monie a merry story, 
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 
An' aye enough o' neefu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man ; 
Sae I conclude and quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 



In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 
Where words ne'er crost the Muse's 

heckles, 
Nor limpit in poetic shackles ; 
A land that prose did never view it, 
Except when drunk he stacher't 

through it; 
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 
I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
Enhusked by a fog infernal : 
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 
For life and spunk like ither Christians, 
I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa's bodies, 
Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes. 
Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 
Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 
And ay a westlin leuk she throws, 
While tears hap o'er her auld brown 

nose! 



Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the Bard through many a 

shire ? 
At howes or hillocks never stumbled, 
And late or early never grumbled ? — 
O, had I power like inclination, 
I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 
To canter with the Sagitarre, 
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 
Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 
Or, when auld Phcebus bids good-mor- 
row, 
Down the zodiac urge the race, 
And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 
For I could lay my bread and kail 
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 
And sma', sma' prospect of relief, 
And nought but peat reek i' my head, 
How can I write what ye can read ? = — 
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
Ye'll find me in a better tune ; 
But till we meet and weet our whistle, 
Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert Burns. 







THE POEMS OE BURNS. 




EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA 

From those drear solitudes and frowzy cells, 

Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 

Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 

And deal from iron hands the spare repast ; 

Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 

Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 

Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 

Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; 

Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 

Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 

From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, 

To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

' Alas ! I feel I am no actor here 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear ! 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold, 

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; 

Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms, 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, 

And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 

Bless'd Highland bonnet ! Once my proudest dress, 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. 

I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 

I see her face the first of Ireland's sons, 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 

The crafty colonel leaves the tartan'd lines, 

For other wars, where he a hero shines : 

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 

Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head, 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, 

That vent, vidi, vici, is his way ; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; 

Though there, his heresies in church and state 

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal called Maria's jaunty stagger, 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ? 




150 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom when 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 

Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine ; 

The idiot strum of vanity bemused, 

And even th' abuse of poesy abused ; 

Who call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?) 

A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 

In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 

And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep ; 

That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 

And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 



Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour, 

Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure ? 

Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 

And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 

Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, 

The vices also, must they club their curse ? 

Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? 



Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 

In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 

Who on my fair-one satire's vengeance hurls ? 

Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette, 

A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 

Who says that fool alone is not thy due, 

And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 

And dare the war with all of woman born : 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that decyphering defy, 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 



A FAREWELL. 

Farewell, dear Friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
And, mang her favourites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him ! 
And ony De'il that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord deceive him. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



151 



THE FAREWELL. 



Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
O then befriend my Jean ! 

When bursting anguish tears my heart, 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part? 

Thou weeping answ'rest 'no ! ' 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much-indebted tear, 



Shall still remember 



you 



All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! 

It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll never see thee more ! 



ON A SUICIDE. 



Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 



The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears 

But it seal'd Freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



:■:!-'£;:: 




152 7W£ FOE MS OF BURNS. 

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRAY : ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR 
JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT 
OF BOROUGHS. 






Fintray, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star ; 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in C cesarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian, pleading. 

O ! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner, 
Heroes and heroines commix, 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honour. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces : 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 





THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



153 



Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps, 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder : 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bared the treason under. 



In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory : 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, 
High-waved his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 



Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold, 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 



To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving: 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, 

And Hell mix'd in the brulzie. 



As highland craigs by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings fire'the stormy lift, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle, 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle ! 



The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers 
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 



154 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring : 
The muffled murtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules it's bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham, 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! 
Now death and hell engulf thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 



Still o'er the field the combat burns, 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But Fate the word has spoken. 
For woman's wit and strength o' man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 




O that my een were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourus 

Her darling cubs' undoing 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
W T hile Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing. 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James ? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ! 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart, bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; 

And Melville melt in wailing 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, ' O Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! ' 



For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely \ 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chirps securely. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



155 



VERSES 



ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. 



As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Ae smiling simmer-morn I strayed, 
And traced its bonie howes and haughs, 

Where linties sang and lambkins 
played, 
I sat me down upon a craig, 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below, 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 

And troubled, like his wintry wave, 
And deep, as sughs the boding wind 

Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave — 
' And came ye here, my son,' he cried, 

' To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 

Or sing some favourite Scottish 
maid? 

* There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 
Ye might hae seen me in my pride, 
When a' my banks sae bravely saw 
Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech and spreading 
elm 
Shaded my stream sae clear and 
cool, 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 
Threw broad and dark across the 
pool; 



' When glinting, through the trees, ap- 
peared 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane.' 

' Alas ! ' said I, 'what ruefu' chance 

Has twined ye o' your stately trees ? 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare, 

Has stripped the deeding o' your 
braes ? 
Was it the bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters blight in early spring ? 
Or was't the wil'nre scorched their 
boughs, 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ? ' 

'Nae eastlin blast,' the sprite replied; 
' It blew na here sae fierce and fell, 
And on my dry and halesome banks 
Nae canker-worms get leave to 
dwell : 
Man ! cruel man ! ' the genius sighed — 
As through the cliffs he sank him 
down — 
' The worm that gnawed my bonie 
trees, 
That reptile wears a ducal crown.' 



STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 

sing Drumlanrig's 



How shall I si 

Grace, 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrast 

ed — 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 



Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore ; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt : 
Follies and crimes have stained the 

name, 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin 
claim, 
From aught that's good exempt. 







-Ng^y- ■ 



156 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 



Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' 

hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unback'd filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter, 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishan- 
ter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart! Hale be your 

fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' this wild warl', 

Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carl. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or 

soon 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in 

tune, 
And screw your temper-pins aboon 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazie croon, 
O' cankrie care. 

May still your life from day to day 
Nae 'lente largo' in the play, 
But ' allegretto forte ' gay 

Harmonious flow 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld straths- 
pey- 
Encore ! Bravo ! 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 



My hand-waled curse keep hard in 

chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse - proud 

race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 
Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fire-side discords jar a base 
To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless 

brither, 
I' th' ither warl' if there's anither, 
An' that there is I've little swither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted 

clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonie squad priests wyte them 
sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 
God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching cursed delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte, 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnan spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high 

swearin' — 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 

Some cantraip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive V amour ! 



B 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Faites vies baissemains respectueiise. 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 
An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae 
treasure ; 



But when in Ayr, some half hour's 
leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 

Mossgiel, 30//Z October, 1786. 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 



Now Kennedy, if foot or horse 
E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss, 
Lord man, there's lasses there wad 
force 

A hermit's fancy, 
And down the gate in faith they're 
worse 

And mair unchancy. 

But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's 
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews, 
Till some bit callan brings me news 

That you are there, 
And if we dinna had a bouze 

I'se ne'er drink mair. 

It's no I like to sit an' swallow, 
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow, 



But gie me just a true good fallow 
Wi' right ingine, 

And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 
And then we'll shine. 

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
An 'sklent on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship I will troke 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel, 
Ye hate as ill's the vera De'il, 
The flinty hearts that canna feel — 

Come, Sir, here's tae you ; 
Hae there's my haun' I wiss you weel, 

And gude be wi' you. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 



O, could I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 



But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy ■ 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE. 



The night was still, and o'er the hill 
The moon shone on the castle wa' ; 

The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang 
Around her, on the castle wa'. 



Sae merrily they danced the ring, 
Frae eenin' till the cock did craw 

And aye the o'erword o' the spring, 
Was Irvine's bairns are bonie a'. 





158 THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 
To those who for her loss are grieved, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from a world of woe relieved, 

And blooms a rose in Heaven. 



EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 

And empty all his barrels ; 
He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink 

In upright honest morals. 



ON STIRLING. 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd, 
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd ; 
But now unroof'd their palace stands, 
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands ; 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills their throne. 
An idiot race to honour lost, 
Who know them best, despise them most. 



LINES 

BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS 
PROSPECTS. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name 

Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, 

Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel ? 



THE REPLY. 

Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel 
All others scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



59 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 



TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 



Long life, my Lord, an' health be 

yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland 

boors; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beg- 
gar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 
Faith, you and Applecross were right 
To keep the Highland hounds in 

sight, 
I doubt na' ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the 

water 
Than up amang thae lakes and seas 
They'll mak' what rules and laws they 

please ; 
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 
Some Washington again may head 

them, 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead 

them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts 

directed — 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack- 

ville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack 

vile, 
An' whare will ye get Howes and 

Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
An' save the honour o' the nation ? 
They an' be d d ! what right hae 

they 
To meat or sleep, or light o' day ! 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, 
But what your lordship likes to gie 

them? 



But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I 

fear; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and 

bailies, 
I canna' say but they do gaylies ; 
They lay aside a' tender mercies, 
An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 
Yet while they're only poind't and 

herriet, 
They'll keep their stubborn Highland 

spirit; 



thei 



rash them a' to 



But smash 
spails ! 
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 
The young dogs, swinge them to the 

labour ! 
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins faw- 

sont, 
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 
An' if the wives an' dirty brats 
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts 
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 
An gar the tatter'cl gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back ! 
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet 

you, 
An' in my house at hame to greet 

you ; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 
At my right han' assign'd your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate, — 
Or if you on your station tarrow 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
An' till ye come — Your humble ser- 
vant, 

Beelzebub. 

June i, Anno Mundi 5790. 





i6o 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 






ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ. 

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar, 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 

Justice, the high vice-gerent of her God, 

Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod; 

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 

She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : 

Mark ruffian violence, distain'd with crimes, 

Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; 

View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 

As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 

While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong : 

Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, 

And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



asp 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



161 



ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 



A SECOND VERSION OF THE KIRK'S ALARM. 



Orthodox, orthodox, 
Who believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your con- 
science — 
There's an heretic blast, 
Has been blawn i' the wast, 
That what is not sense must be non- 
sense, 

Orthodox, 
That what is not sense must be non- 
sense. t 

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, 

Ye should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil-doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense, 

Upon any pretence, 
Was heretic damnable error, 

Doctor Mac, 
Was heretic damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was rash, I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob is its ruin, 

Town of Ayr, 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new-driven snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Old Satan must have ye 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 

D'rymple mild, 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 
Seize your spiritual guns, 
Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, 
Will be powder enough, 



And your skulls are a storehouse of 

lead, 

Calvin's sons, 
And your skulls are a storehouse of 

lead. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, 

Mount the steps with a groan, 
Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd ; 

Then lug out your ladle, 

Deal brimstone like aidle, 
And roar every note o' the damn'd, 
Rumble John, 
And roar every note o' the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view 
I'll lay on your head, 
That the pack ye'U soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few, 
Simper James, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what danger awaits ? 

With a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates, 

Singet Sawnie, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates. 

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 
Ye may slander the book, 
And the book nought the waur — let 
me tell you ; 
Tho' ye're rich and look big, 
Yet lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' 
value, 

Andrew Gowk, 
And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' 
value. 



l62 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 

Gie the doctor a volley, 
Wi' your ' liberty's chain ' and your wit : 

O'er Pegasus' side, 

Ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye only stood by when he sh — , 
Poet Willie, 
Ye only stood by when he sh — . 

Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie, 

What mean ye ? what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may hae some pretence man, 

To havins and sense man, 
Wi' people that ken you nae better, 

Bar Steenie, 
Wi' people that ken you nae better. 

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 
Ye hae made but toom roose, 
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the doctor's your mark, 
For the Lord's holy ark, 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin 
in't, 

Jamie Goose, 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin 
in't. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 

For a saunt if ye muster, 
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass were the King o' the brutes. 

Davie Bluster, 
If the ass were the King o' the brutes, 

Muirland George, Muirland George, 
Whom the Lord made a scourge, 
To claw common sense for her sins ; 
If ill manners were wit, 
There's no mortal so fit, 



To confound the poor doctor at ance, 

Muirland George, 

To confound the poor doctor at ance. 

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, 
Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 
O' manhood but sma' is your share ! 
Ye've the figure, it's true, 
Even our faes maun allow, 
And your friends daurna say ye hae 
mair, 

Cessnockside, 
And your friends daurna say ye hae 
mair. 

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 

There's a tod i' the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 

Tho' ye downa do skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark, 
Daddie Auld, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priestskelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, 

Yet were she even tipsy, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are, 

Poet Burns, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, 

When your pen can be spared 
A copy o' this I bequeath, 

On the same sicker score 

I mentioned before, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, 

Afton's Laird, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 



Some hae meat, and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it; 

But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



163 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON. 



Peg Nicholson was a gude bay 
mare, 

As ever trode on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

An' past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An' rode thro' thick an' thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
An' wanting even the skin. 



Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An' ance she bare a priest ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An' the priest he rode her sair ; 

An' meikle oppress'd an' bruised she 
was, 
As priest-rid cattle are. 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 

OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, WHICH SHE HAD GIVEN HIM. 



Thou flattering mark of friendship 

kind 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor : 
Though sweetly female every part, 
Yet such a head, and more the 
heart, 
Does both the sexes honour. 



She showed her tastes refined and just 

When she selected thee, 
Yet deviating own I must, 
For so approving me. 
But kind still, I'll mind still 

The giver in the gift ; 
I'll bless her and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG 

NAMED ECHO. 



In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 



Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 



IN A FAVORITE CHARACTER. 



Sweet naivete of feature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 



Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected, 
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part, 







164 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth 

Can turn Death's dart aside ? 
It is not purity and worth, 

Else Jessy had not died. 



THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky, 
Yet still one Seraph's left on earth, 

For Jessy did not die. 



THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 



As cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few ; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! 



THE BO OK- WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots, make your windings ; 

But, oh! respect his lordship's taste, 
And spare his golden bindings. 



ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 



To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



I6 5 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 



Wl' braw new branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward 
crush, 

The doited beastie stammers; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes; 
I am nae stranger to your fame 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamours, 
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're 
fair, 

And Honour safely back her, 
And Modesty assume your air, 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 



I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his breastie : 
But Oh ! what signifies to you, 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his 
beard, 

And host up some palaver. 
My bonie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit 
skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 




But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight, 
Not ev'n to view the Heavenly choir, 

Would be so blest a sight. 



1 66 THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf ! 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief! 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass ! 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction. 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile, 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore, 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 



REMORSE. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind 

Has this to say — ' It was no deed of mine ; ' 

But when to all the evil of misfortune 

This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self! ' 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 

O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment, 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 

O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 

O glorious magnanimity of soul! 



THE TOAST. 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast, a toast divine; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast, 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



167 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 



With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 



Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



TO 



Sir, 



Mossgiel. 1786. 



Yours this moment I unseal, 
And faith I am gay and hearty ! 

To tell the truth an' shame the Deil 
I am as fu' as Bartie : 



But foorsday Sir, my promise leal 

Expect me o' your party, 
If on a beastie I can speel, 

Or hurl in a cartie. R. B. 



THERE 'S NAETHIN LIKE THE HONEST NAPPY. 



There's naethin like the honest nappy ! 
Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy, 
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 

'Tween morn an' morn, 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 

In glass or horn. 



I've seen me daez't upon a time ; 
I scarce could wink or see a styme ; 
Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, 

Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme 

As gleg's a whittle ! 



FRAGMENT 



Now health forsakes that angel face, 
Nae mair my Dearie smiles; 

Pale sickness withers ilka grace, 
And a' my hopes beguiles. 



The cruel powers reject the prayer 

I hourly male for thee ; 
Ye Heavens, how great is my despair, 

How can I see him die ! 



EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 



Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, 
His chicken heart so tender; 

But build a castle on his head, 
His scull will prop it under. 





fpw 



c - -- ■ - 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





'IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE: 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear ; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst — and can that worst despise. 
' Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd ; unpitied, unredrest, 
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest.' 
Let prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erpays them all ! 



1 THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE. 1 

Though fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me, 
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — 




I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 

But if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. — 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES. 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng, 
With Crackn the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



These verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he indorsed the 
subjoined reply : 



B URNS — EXTEMPORE. 

Ye true ' Loyal Natives,' attend to my song, 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt ? 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



</ BURN, i burn: 

'I BURN, I bum, as when thro' ripen'd corn, 

By driving winds the crackling flames are borne,' 

Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night ; 

Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight. 

In vain the laws their feeble force oppose : 

Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish'd foes 

In vain religion meets my sinking eye ; 

I dare not combat — but I turn and fly ; 

Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallowed fire; 

Love grasps his scorpions — stifled they expire ! 

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, 

Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone : 

Each thought intoxicated homage yields, 

And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 



By all on high adoring mortals know ! 
By all the conscious villain fears below! 
By your dear self! — the last great oath I swear 
Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear ! 



TAM THE CHAPMAN. 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day 

Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, 

Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous, 

And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas, 

Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, 

And there blaws up a hearty crack ; 

His social, friendly, honest heart, 

Sae tickled Death they could na part : 

Sae after viewing knives and garters, 

Death takes him hame to gie him quarters. 



TO DR. MAXWELL. 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 



Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An Angel could not die. 




170 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




PROLOGUE, 



SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL l6, I787. 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame ; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe ? 

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song : 
But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail Caledonia ! name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! 
Where every science, every nobler art — 
That can inform the mind or mend the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found, 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream, 

Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam , 
Here History paints with elegance and force, 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, 
And Harley rouses all the god in man. 
When well-form'd taste, and sparkling wit unite, 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright, 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, 
Can only charm us in the second place), 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet, 
With decency and law beneath his feet, 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name ; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

O Thou, dread Power ! whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land, 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; 
May every son be worthy of his sire ; 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



171 



NATURE'S LAW. 



A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H. ESQ. 

Great nature spoke, observant man obeyed. 

Pope. 



Let other heroes boast their scars, 

The marks of sturt and strife : 
And other Poets sing of wars, 

The plagues of human life ; 
Shame fa' the fun; wi' sword and gun 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 

Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 

• Go on, ye human race ! 
' This lower world I you resign ; 

4 Be fruitful and increase. 
' The liquid fire of strong desire 

' I've pour'd it in each bosom ; 
' Here, in this hand, does mankind 
stand, 

' And there, is Beauty's blossom ! ' 

The Hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly Bard was he, 
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 

With meikle mirth an' glee ; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share, 

Large, of the flaming current ; 
And, all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 



He felt the powerful, high behest, 

Thrill, vital, thro' and thro' ; 
And sought a correspondent breast, 

To give obedience due : 
Propitious Powers screen'd the young 
flow'rs, 

From mildews of abortion ; 
And lo ! the Bard, a great reward, 

Has got a double portion ! 

Auld, cantie Coil may count the day, 

As annual it returns, 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another Burns, 
With future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire ; 
To sing auld Coil in nobler style 

With more poetic fire. 

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, 

Look down with gracious eyes ; 
And bless auld Coila, large and long, 

With multiplying joys. 
Long may she stand to prop the land, 

The flow'r of ancient nations ; 
And Burns's spring, her fame to sing, 

To endless generations ! 



THE CATS LIKE KITCHEN. 



The cats like kitchen ; 

The dogs like broo ; 
The lasses like the lads weel, 

And th' auld wives too. 



CHORUS. 
And we're a' noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin, 
We're a' noddin fou at e'en. 



POVERTY. 



In politics if thou wouldst mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be ; 
Bear this in mind, — be deaf and blind, 

Let great folks hear and see. 








THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness ; 

And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs 

I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears of indignation I behold th' oppressor 

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, 

Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 

Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, 

Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin. 

but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 

1 had been driven forth like you forlorn, 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you ! 

O injur'd God ! thy goodness has endow'd me 

With talents passing most of my compeers, 

Which I in just proportion have abus'd, 

As far surpassing other common villains, 

As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more.' 



EXTEMPORE. 

PINNED TO A LADY'S COACH. 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, 

Your speed will out-rival the dart : 
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road, 

If your stuff be as rotten's her heart. 



LINES 



ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIES SO LITTLE AND MRS. 
* * * SO LARGE. 



Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat. 



Ask why God made the gem so small, 
An' why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 







tfm 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



173 



FRAGMENTS. 



Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie, 

Ye've lien a' wrang ; 
Ye've lien in an unco bed, 

And wi a fremit man. 
O ance ye danced upon the knowes 

And ance ye lightly sang — 
But in herrying o' a bee byke, 

I'm rad ye've got a stang. 



O gie my love brose, brose, 

Gie my love brose and butter; 
For nane in Carrick or Kyle 

Can please a lassie better. 
The lav'rock lo'es the grass, 

The muirhen lo'es the heather 
But gie me a braw moonlight, 

And me and my love together. 



Lass, when your mither is frae hame, 

Might I but be sae bauld 
As come to your bower-window, 

And creep in frae the cauld, 
As come to your bower-window, 

And when it's cauld and wat, 
Warm me in thy sweet bosom ; 

Fair lass, wilt thou do that ? 

Young man, gif ye should be sae kind, 

"When our gudewife's frae hame, 
As come to my bower-window, 

Whare I am laid my lane, 
And warm thee in my bosom — 

But I will tell thee what, 
The way to me lies through the kirk ; 

Young man, do ye hear that ? 



I met a lass, a bonie lass, 

Coming o'er the braes o' Couper, 
Bare her leg and bright her een, 

And handsome ilka bit about her. 
Weel I wat she was a quean 

Wad made a body's mouth to water 
Our Mess John, wi' his lyart pow, 

His haly lips wad lickit at her. 



O wat ye what my minnie did, 
My minnie did, my minnie did, 

wat ye what my minnie did, 
On Tysday 'teen to me, jo ? 

She laid me in a saft bed, 

A saft bed, a saft bed, 
She laid me in a saft bed, 

And bade gudeen to me, jo. 

An' wat ye what the parson did, 

The parson did, the parson did, 
An' wat ye what the parson did, 

A' for a penny fee, jo ? 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

A mickle man, a Strang man, 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

That might hae worried me, jo. 

An' I was but a young thing, 
A young thing, a young thing, 

An' I was but a young thing, 
Wi' nane to pity me, jo. 

1 wat the kirk was in the wyte, 
In the wyte, in the wyte, 

To pit a young thing in a fright, 
An' loose a man on me, jo. 



can ye labour lea, young man, 
An' can ye labour lea; 

Gae back the gate ye cam' again, 
Ye'se never scorn me. 

1 feed a man at Martinmas, 
Wi' arle pennies three ; 

An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him, 
He couldna labour lea. 

The stibble rig is easy plough'd, 

The fallow land is free; 
But wha wad keep the handless coof, 

That couldna labour lea ? 





Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the 

heather, 
Say, was it the covenant carried her 

thither ; 




174 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Jenny M'Craw to the mountains is 

gane, 
Their leagues and their covenants a' 

she has ta'en ; 
My head and my heart, now quo' she, 

are at rest, 
And as for the lave, let the Deil do 

his best. 



Lord, we thank an' thee adore, 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit ; 

At present we will ask no more, 

Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 



The last braw bridal that I was at, 

'Twas on a Hallowmass day, 
And there was routh o' drink and fun, 

And mickle mirth and play. 
The bells they rang, and the carlins 
sang, 

And the dames danced in the ha' ; 
The bride went to bed wi' the silly 
bridegroom, 

In the midst o' her kimmers a'. 



There came a piper out o' Fife, 
I watna what they ca'd him ; 

He play'd our cousin Kate a spring, 
When fient a body bade him. 

And ay the mair he hotch'd an' blew, 
The mair that she forbade him. 



The black-headed eagle 

As keen as a beagle, 
He hunted o'er height and owre howe 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



O Thou, in whom we live and move, 

Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, pow'r above, 

Still grant us with such store ; 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE 
INN AT CARRON. 

We came na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise. 

But when we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come, 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 

EPIGRAM. 

WRITTEN AT INVERARY. 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland 
pride, 

And Highland scab and hunger; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in an anger. 

VERSES ADDRESSED TO 
/. RANK1NE, 

ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET, 
THAT A GIRL IN THAT PART OF 
THE COUNTRY WAS WITH CHILD 
TO HIM. 

I am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither, 
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice, 
And winna say owre far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 









THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



175 



LINES 

SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, 
TO JOHN RANKINE, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY 
AFTER THE POET'S DECEASE. 

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead ; 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ; 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



LINES 

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give ; 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 

THE HENPECICD HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart : 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. 

EXTEMPORE LINES, 



IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING 
HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. 

The King's most humble servant I, 

Can scarcely spare a minute ; 
But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye ; 

Or else the Deil's be in it. 



My bottle is my holy pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care an' dool, 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out. 




176 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 




ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE 

SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 



What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow 

crouse, 
I gi'e their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, 

An' jag-the-fiae. 

King David o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses such mis- 
chief 
As fill'd his after life wi' grief 
An' bloody rants, 
An yet he's rank'd amang the chief 
O' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts. 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Than garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did wi' the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, ' Robin ! 
4 Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blam'd for jobbin'.' 



Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expres- 
sion, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A furnicator-loun he call'd me, 

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

But what the matter ? ' 
Quo' I, ' I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better.' 

' Geld you ! ' quo' he, ' and whatfor 

no? 

If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' whatfore no 

Your dearest member ? ' 

' Na, na,' quo' I, l I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my faut, 

A hearty flewit. 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Tho' I should rue it. 

' Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gi'e her't a'thegither, 

An' let her guide it,' 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tarn, when that I saw, 
I said, 'Gude night,' and cam awa, 

And left the Session; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



1 77 



A TOAST 

GIVEN AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIESSHIRE VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO 
COMMEMORATE THE ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEY 's VICTORY, APRIL I2TH, 
I782. 

Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast, — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost : 
That we lost, did I say ? nay, by heav'n, that we found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ! 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial ! 



ON SEEING 



THE BEAUTIFUL 
GALLOWAY. 



SEAT OF LORD 



What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 

ON THE SAME. 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 

The Stewarts all were brave ; 
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 

Not one of them a knave. 

ON THE SAME. 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, 

Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 
So ran the far-famed Roman way, 

So ended in a mire ! 

TO THE SAME, 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 



Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 




178 THE POEMS OF BURNS. 

EPITAPH ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 

A case that's still too common, 
Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 

The Devil rul'd the woman. 

EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. 



O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
Whom we, this day, lament ! 

We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 
And a' been weel content. 



Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, 
The swap we yet will do't ; 

Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, 
Thou'se get the saul o' boot. 







ANOTHER. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion, 
When called on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence, 
Not to shew her respect, but — to save the expense. 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD 
IN THE REV. DR. B- — >S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 

EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But — what'll ye say ? 
These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 






THE POEMS OF BURNS. 1 79 

LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING'S ARMS TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hearing ; 

What are your landlords' rent-rolls ? taxing ledgers : 
What premiers, what ? even Monarchs' mighty gaugers : 

Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen ? 

ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, 
EIEESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes ; 

O Satan, when ye talc him, 
Gie him the schoolin' of your weans, 

For clever De'ils he'll mak them ! 

LINES 

WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE 
CHARACTER OF YAR1CO. 

Dumfries Theatre, 1794. 
Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 
The rock with tears had flow'd. 



I murder hate by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us ; 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 
Life-giving war of Venus. 

The deities that I adore 

Are social Peace and Plenty, 
I'm better pleased to make one more, 

Than be the death of twenty. 

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts ye've gotten ; 

And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For de'il a bit o'ts rotten. 







i8o 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



VERSES TO J. RANKINE. 




Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warP 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And monie a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and 

garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter ; 
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, 



'By God I'll not be seen behint 

them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present 

them, 
Without at least, ae honest man, 
To grace this damn'd infernal clan,' 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
■ Lord God ! ' quoth he, ' I have it 

now, 
There's just the man I want, i' faith,' 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 



TUNE — ' KILLIECRANKIE. 




LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 




EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER, 
MAUCHLINE. 



Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 

What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to ken, 

To some other warl' 

Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! 



Strong ale was ablution, — 
Small beer persecution, 
A dram was memento mori ; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 
And port was celestial glory. 



EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 



Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa, 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 



Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass 
To school in bands thegither, 

O tread ye lightly on his grass, 
Perhaps he was your father. 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



ISI 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, 

Give me with gay Folly to live : 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But Folly has raptures to give. 

EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying; 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, 

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, 

Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, ' By God, 

I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load.' 

LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE 
CELEBRATED MISS BURNS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing, 
Had a woman ever less ? 



ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times 
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art, 
The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 







EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY, WRITER, 
DUMFRIES. 



IN 



Here lies John Bushby, honest man ! 
Cheat him, Devil, if you can. 



1 82 THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF 
MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

O THOU whom Poetry abhors, 
Whom Prose had turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan ? — proceed no further, 
'Twas laurel'd Martial roaring murther. 



EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, NOT QUITE SO 
WISE AS SOLOMON 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes, 
Who said that not the soul alone, 

But body too, must rise : 
For had he said, ' The soul alone 

From death I will deliver,' 
Alas, alas ! O Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever ! 



EPITAPH ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hie jacet wee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know 
That death has murder'd Johnie ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low 

For saul he ne'er had ony. 

EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here sowter Hood in Death does sleep ; 

To Hell, if he's gane thither, 

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 







THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



183 



EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name, 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 
But with such as he, where'er he be, 

May I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



EPITAPH ON MY FATHER. 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

'For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 



EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED 
'the marquis,' who desired burns to write one on him. 

Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm'd, 
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 

ON HIMSELF. 



Here comes Burns 

On Rosinante; 
She's d poor, 

But he's d canty f 




184 THE POEMS OF BURNS. 





THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



I8 5 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Ovvre fast for thought, owre hot for 

rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to 
snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
And drap a tear. 

Is there a Bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man whose judgment 

clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 



Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting 
tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor Inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



ADDRESSED TO A LADY 

WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED. 



Rusticity's ungainly form 
May cloud the highest mind ; 

But when the heart is nobly warm, 
The good excuse will find. 



Propriety's cold cautious rules 
Warm fervour may o'erlook; 

But spare poor sensibility 
The ungentle, harsh rebuke. 



LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER. 



My blessings on ye, honest wife, 
I ne'er was here before : 

Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon 
knife — 
Heart could not wish for more. 



and 



Heaven keep you clear of sturt and 
strife, 

Till far ayont four score, 
And by the Lord o' death and life, 

I'll ne'er gae by your door ! 




TO A PAINTER. 



Dear , I'll gie ye some advice 

You'll tak it no uncivil : 
You shouldna paint at angels mair, 

But try and paint the devil. 



To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
Wi' auld Nick there's less danger 

You'll easy draw a weel-kent face, 
But no sae weel a stranger. 



1 86 



THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day, 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray ; 
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 
Nor even sorrow add one silver hair ! 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain, 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. 



TO 



Your billet, sir, I grant receipt ; 
Wi' you I'll canter ony gate, 
Though 'twere a trip to yon blue warl', 
Whare birkies march on burning marl : 
Then sir, God willing, I'll attend ye, 
And to his goodness I commend ye. 

R. Burns. 



TO A LADY 

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON. 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 
Nor idle texts pursue : 
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant — 
Not angels such as you ! 



TO 



Mossgiel, Ai 



Friday first's the day appointed 
By the Right Worshipful anointed, 

To hold our grand procession ; 
To get a blad o' Johnie's morals, 
And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels 

I' the way of our profession. 
The Master and the Brotherhood 

Would a' be glad to see you; 
For me I would be mair than proud 
To share the mercies wi' you. 
If Death, then, wi' skaith, then, 
Some mortal heart is hechtin', 
Inform him, and storm him, 
That Saturday you'll fecht him. 

Robert Burns. 

M. 5790. 



-fe 




THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



l8 7 



LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER. 




You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half sae welcome's thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 

The bowl we maun renew it ; 
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben, 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack, 

Ilk action may he rue it ; 
May woman on him turn her back, 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart! 



ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK, 

OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 

Honest Will to heaven is gane, 
And mony shall lament him ; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
In English nane e'er kent them. 









SONGS. 



THE LASS 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 

TUNE — ' MISS FORBES'S FAREWELL TO BANFF, OR ETTRICK BANKS.' 



'Twas even — the dewy fields were 
green, 

On every blade the pearls hang ; 
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the Mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the 
while : 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper'd passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in Autumn mild, 

When roving thro' the garden gay, 
Or wandering in a lonely wild : 



But Woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does com- 
pile; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry 
steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day has joys divine, 

With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



NAEBODY. 



I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' naebody; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody: 
I hae naething to lend, 
. I'll borrow frae naebody. 
18S 



I am naebody's lord, 
I'll be slave to naebody ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts fra naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody j 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 




Scene. 



■Afield of battle. Time of the day — Evening. The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to join in the song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ! 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou for the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 



In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our King and our Country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not rest with the brave 1 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 



There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast 



190 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me 
O how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. 



When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and wearie O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 
My ain kind dearie O. 



Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 
And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And neist my heart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 



She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack, we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blithe yule night when we were fou, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin' 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 
Ha, ha, &c. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



IQI 



Time and chance are but a tide, 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Slighted love is sair to bide, 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 

For a haughty hizzie die ? 

She may gae to — France for me ! 
Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Meg grew sick — as he grew well, 
Ha, ha, &c. 



Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan couldna be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and cantie baith !. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't 



O POORTITH. 



HAD A HORSE. 



O poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
An' 't werena for my Jeanie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure 
have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
O why, &c. 

Her een sae bonie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 



But prudence is her o'erword aye, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, &c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 







LORD GREGORY. 



O mirk, mirk is this midnight 
hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it mayna be. 



Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the 
grove, 

By bonie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love, 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 
Thou wad for aye be mine ! 

And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 
It ne'er mistrusted thine. 




^/^jpr*^ 



192 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 



Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



GALL A WATER. 



There's braw braw lads on Yarrow 
braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming 
heather ; 
But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonie lad o' Galla Water. 



Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water, 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was 
wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace or 
pleasure ; 
The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 




THERE WAS A LASS. 



TUNE — ' BONIE JEAN. 




There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's 
wark, 

And aye she sang sae merrily : 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest 
rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 



He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 
Her heart was tint, her peace was 
stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's 
wark, 

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Yet wistna what her ail might be, 

Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And didna joy blink in her ee, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 







THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



193 



The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 



At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



LOGAN BRAES. 



TUNE — ' LOGAN WATER ' 



O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing 

flowers ; 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are tears of joy: 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 



Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy 

days, 
And Willie hame to Logan Braes ! 



t*lPl 






PHILLIS THE FAIR. 



TUNE — ROBIN ADAIR. 



While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 



Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 
Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



194 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side, 

Never to rise again, Oh ! 



MEG O' THE MILL. 





AIR — * O, BONIE LASS, WILL YOU LIE IN A BARRACK. 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ; 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl f 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



195 



JESSIE. 

TUNE — ' BONIE DUNDEE.' 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee ; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me ! 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers : 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 



But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 






.... j "\r--::. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




BY ALLAN STREAM. 



ALLAN WATER. 



By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 
While Phoebus sank beyond Ben- 
leddi ; 
The winds were whispering thro' the 
grove, 
The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 
And thought on youthfu' pleasures 
monie ; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 

Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my 
dearie ! 



Her head upon my throbbing breast, 
She, sinking, said ' I'm thine for ever ! ' 

While monie a kiss the seal imprest, 
The sacred vow, we ne'er should 
sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose 
brae, 
The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day 
Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 
Or chain the soul in speechless 
pleasure, 
Or, thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 
Like meeting her, our bosom's treas- 
ure ? 



HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE. 



TUNE — MY JO, JANET. 




Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

' One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ? ' 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance ! 

' Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ! 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy.' 



My poor heart then break it must, 
My last hour I'm near it : 

When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

' I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy.' 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead 
Still I'll try to daunt you; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

' I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy.' 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



HAD I A CAVE. 



TUNE — ' ROBIN ADAIR. 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ? 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there ! 




WHISTLE, AND DLL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 

TUNE — 'MY JO, JANET.' 



O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me. 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



DELUDED SWAIN. 



TUNE — ' THE COLLIER S DOCHTER. 



Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure, 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 



O ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou wouldst be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



SONG. 



TUNE — THE QUAKERS WIFE. 



Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 



Take away these rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure ! 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure ! 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning ! 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

A NEW SCOTS SONG. 

TUNE — 'THE SUTOR'S DOCHTER.' 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shalt ever be my dearie — 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shalt ever be my dearie. 



Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me — 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 




On the seas and far away." — Page 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



I 99 



BANKS OF CREE. 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 



Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has toll'd the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 



It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 



And art thou come ? and art thou true ? 

O welcome, dear, to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flow'ry banks of Cree. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 



TUNE — ' O'ER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 



How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my Sailor lad? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love; 
Nightly dreams and ' thoughts 

day 
Are with him that's far away. 



CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts 

day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 



When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My Sailor's thund'ring at his gun 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 



by 



by 



Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, etc. 



At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless 

power ; 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, etc. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous 

gales 
Fill my Sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas, &c. 





200 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



HARK! THE MAVIS. 




TUNE — CA THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. 





Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
My bonie dearie. 

Hark ! the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang, 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 



O'er the dewy-bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and Heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee, 
Ye shall be my dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 



TUNE — ROTHIEMURCHUS S RANT. 



CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie O ? 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 

Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 

We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 

At sultry noon, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi', &c. 



When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll 
stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the howling wintry 

blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the 
flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 





^mq^^*^ 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A 



TUNE — ' ONAGHS WATER-FALL. 



Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'erarching 

Twa laughing een o' bonie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonie face, 

When first her bonie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky ; 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair 




Her's are the willing chains o' love, 
By conquering beauty's sovereign 
law; 

And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his 
sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou 
rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and 
love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' ? 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 



TUNE — DEIL TAK THE WARS. 



Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 
creature ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly 
stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless 
the day. 



Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morn- 
ing, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen 
sky: 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When thro' my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart — 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and 
joy. 






202 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



HOW LANG AND DREARY. 



TUNE — CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 



How lang and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae wearv. 



For oh, her lanely nights are lang 
And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 
That's absent frae her dearie. 



When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie, 

And now that seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ! 
For oh, &c. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours 
The joyless day how drearie ! 

It wasna sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, &c. 



THE AULD MAN. 



TUNE — THE DEATH OF THE LINNET. 



But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing 
flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or 
Weld, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ? 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 



TUNE — - NANCYS TO THE GREENWOOD GANE. 






Farewell, thou stream that winding 
flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
O Mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch,unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 
Betray the hapless lover. 



I know thou doom'st me to de- 
spair, 

Nor wilt nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me : 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 





THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



203 



CONTENTED WP LITTLE. 

TUNE — ' LUMPS O' PUDDING.' 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 

Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 

I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 

Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 

But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught : 

My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, 

And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' ; 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : 
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain, 
My warst word is — ' Welcome, and welcome again ! ' 



MY NANNIE 'S A WA. 



TUNE — THERE LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME. 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn : 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, 
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa', 
Gie over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidins o' nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 




^J^i 



204 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



SWEET FA'S THE EVE. 



TUNE — CRAIGIEBURN-WCOD. 




Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blythe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 



Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 
Yet dare na for your anger ; 

But secret love will break my heart, 
If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fa' frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? 



TUNE — ' LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT.' 



O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws, 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 

her answer. 
O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gait ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 



chorus. 
I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ance for a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer 

pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she en- 
dures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the 

mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer- 
day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 



£^SB 




Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt their perfume; 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 



Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 



Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 
What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave 



The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



'TWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE E'E. 

TUNE — ' LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.' 

'Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 



Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 




206 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 



TUNE — WHERE LL BONIE ANN LIE. 



O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, > 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 



Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
Sic notes o' wae could wauken. 

Thou tells o* never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 



TUNE — 'JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 




How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Becomes a wretched wife. 



The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



MARK YONDER POMP. 



DEIL TAK THE WARS. 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compar'd with real 
sion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity 
art: 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the 
heart. 



pas- 



and 



But did you see my dearest Chloris, 
In simplicity's array ; 

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower 
is, 
Shrinking from the gaze of day, 
O then, the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming, 

In Love's delightful fetters she chains 
the willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown ; 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity, 

And feel thro' every vein Love's rap- 
tures roll. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



207 



/ SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE. 



TUNE— "THIS IS NO MY AIN HOUSE. 



THIS is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

She's bonie, blooming, straight, and 

tall, 
And lang has had my heart in 

thrall ; 



And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 



O BONIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. 



TUNE — 'I WISH MY LOVE WAS IN A MIRE. 



O bonie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae fair frae haunt o' 
man ; 
And bonie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 
How pure amang the leaves sae 
green ; 
But purer was the lover's vow 
They witness'd in their shade yes- 
treen. 



All in its rude and prickly bower, 
That crimson rose, how sweet and 
fair! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling 
burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; 
And I, the world, nor wish, nor 
scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 




STAY, MY CHARMER. 



TUNE — AN GILLE DUBH CIAR DHUBH. 



Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? By my love so ill requited 



Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you knowhowmuch you grieveme; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 



By the faith you fondly plighted 
By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 





THE SONGS OF BURNS. 





LAST MAYA BR AW WOOER. 

TUNE — ' LOTHIAN LASSIE.' 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 

And sair wi' his love he did deave me : 
I said there was naething I hated like men, 

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, 

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 

And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 
I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd ; 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet — 

But, Heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 

But, Heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 
So e'en to preserve the podr body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS 



209 



HEY FOR A LASS WP A TOCHER. 



BALINAMONA ORA. 



Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



CHORUS. 

Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes. 
Then hey, etc. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, etc. ■ 



ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 

TUNE — 'HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA, HINEY.' 



CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 

For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 





210 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 







I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 



THE LAZY MIST 



The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ; 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain : 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
•It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood ; 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



211 



FORLORN, MY LOVE. 




LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT. 



Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 



O wert thou, love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 



And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
O wert, etc. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, etc. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, etc. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 



TUNE — ' MORAG. 



Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 
Far wanders nations over. 

Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 
May Heaven be his warden : 

Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonie Castle-Gordon ! 



The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonie Castle-Gordon. 



STRATH ALLAN'S LAMENT. 



Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 



In the cause of right engag'd, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly wag'd, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend ; 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



,;;■■ ;■■;- ' 




^mfsm>^ 









212 



THE SONGS OF BURNS, 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 




CHORUS. 

Bonie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, 

will ye go, 
Bonie lassie, will ye go to the Birks 

of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 

The little birdies blithly sing, 

Or lightly flit on wanton wing 

In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonie lassie, &c. 




The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 



FULL WELL THOU KNOWS' T. 



ROTHIEMURCHUS S RANT. 



CHORUS. 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 



Full well thou know'st I love thee 

dear, 
Cculdst thou to malice lend an ear ? 



O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ? " 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall 
know. 

Fairest maid, &c. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 



TUNE — M GREGOR OF RUARA S LAMENT. 



Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring : 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 



"O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O, how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! " 



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:h 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



213 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN 



DRUIMION DUBH. 



Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 



Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me 
Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 

Spirits kind, again attend me, 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 




TUNE — 'ANDRO AND HIS CUTTIE GUN. 



CHORUS. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben : 

Blithe by the banks of Ern, 
But blither in Glenturit glen. 

By Ochtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 



She tripped by the banks of Ern 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, &c. 

Her bonie face it was as meek 
As onie lamb's upon a lee ; 

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
Blithe, &c. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, &c. 



PEGGY'S CHARMS. 



TUNE — ' NEIL GOW'S LAMENTATION FOR ABERCA1RNY.' 



Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd doubly, marks it beam 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 



Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 








214 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 



TUNE — THE SHEPHERD S WIFE. 



A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 



She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 



TUNE — 'INVERCAULDS REEL. 



CHORUS. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye would na been sae shy; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But, trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 

Because ye hae the name o' clink, 

That ye can please me at a wink, 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows onie saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice} 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



215 



/ LOVE MY JEAN. 



TUNE — MISS ADMIRAL GORDONS STRATHSPEY. 



Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And monie a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green ; 
There's not a bonie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 




O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' BILL / 

TUNE — ' MY LOVE IS LOST TO ME.' 



O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well, 
My Muse maun be thy bonie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my 

lay! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I could na sing, I could na say, 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 



I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae 

clean, 
Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 
By Heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I'd love thee. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 



MISS FORBES S FAREWELL TO BANFF. 



The Catrine woods were yellow 
seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the whyle, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 



Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Balloch- 
myle. 




2l6 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE BLISSFUL DAY. 



SEVENTH OF NOVEMBER. 



1 



The day returns, ray bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet ; 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae 
sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and 
globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee 
mine. 



While day and night can bring de- 
light, 
Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above my mind can 
move, 
For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 
It breaks my bliss — it breaks my 
heart. 





THE HAPPY TRIO. 



TUNE — 'WILLIE BREW D A PECK O MAUT. 



O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to pree ; 

Three blither hearts, that lee-Ian^ 
night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 



We are na fou, we're no that fou, 
But just a drappie in our ee ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 



And monie a night we've merry been, 
And monie mae we hope to be ! 
We are na fou, &c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
We are na fou, &c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 

Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the King amang us three ! 
We are na fou, &c. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 



John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 



John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 




But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo." — Page 216. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



217 



TAM GLEN. 



THE MUCKING O GEORDIE S BYRE. 



My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 
' Guid-day to you, brute ! ' he comes 
ben : 
He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn 
Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? 



My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten : 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 
His likeness cam up the house 
staukin — 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam 
Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my boiiie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 




WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 

MAN 



WP AN AULD 




WHAT CAN A LASSIE DO. 



What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the penny, &c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang : 

He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him do a' that I can ; 

He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 

I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 




218 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 







THE BLUE- EYED LASSIE. 



TUNE — " THE BLATHRIE O T. 



I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet 
een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonie blue. 
Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom lily-white ; — 

It was her een sae bonie blue. 



She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she 
wyl'd, 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonie blue. 



GANE IS THE DAY. 



TUNE — GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. 



Gane is the day, and mirk's the 

night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the risin sun. 



CHORUS. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the 

lawin, the lawin, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and 

bring a coggie mair. 



There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen', 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For iika man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 

That heals the wounds o' care and 

dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM ! 



TUNE — ' THE MOUDIEVVORT. 



CHORUS. 

An O for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 

And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel 

roun', 

And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 

And O for ane, &c. 



A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam ; 
But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my 
loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ' 
An O for ane, &c. 








' /'// set me down and sing a.7id spin, 
While laigk descends the simmer sun. 



Page 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



219 



BESSY AND HER SPINNIN WHEEL. 



BOTTOM OF THE PUNCH BOWL. 




O leeze me on my spinnin wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinnin wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white, 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the bieP, 
Where blithe I turn my spinnin wheel. 



On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinnin wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flarin, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinnin wheel ? 






FAIR ELIZA. 



TUNE— 'THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE.' 



Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee ; 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die? 



While the life beats in my bosom, 
Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 

Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 
Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his ee, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 






LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE? 

TUNE—' MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRING O'ER ME.' 



Louis, what reck I by thte, 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvour, beggar loons to me, 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 



Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



220 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




THE BANKS OF NITH. 

TUNE — ' ROBIE DONNA GORACH.' 

The Thames flows proudly to the 
sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high 
command : 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 
Where spreading hawthorns gaily 
bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 
Where lambkins wanton thro' the 
broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my 
doom, 
Far from thy bonie banks and 
braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 
Amang the friends of early days ! 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 

TUNE — 'THE LADS OF SALTCOATS.' 

Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, was thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wistfully I look and languish 
In that bonie face o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonie wee, &c. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

TUNE — 'JOHN, COME KISS ME NOW.' 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, ' I'll be wed, come o't what will ; ' 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

' O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

' It's ye have wooers monie a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken : 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, f u' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire.' 

' For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's ee, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear.' 

' O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ! 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will 
spare, 

An' wilfu' folks maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the 
yill.' 

1 O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye , 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy, 

W hat mair hae queens upon a throne ? 





O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will aye remember. 
And dear, etc. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's guid watch o'er them 

And here's to them we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, etc. 



THE BANKS } BOON. 



TUNE — THE CALEDONIAN HUNTS DELIGHT. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break mv heart, thou warbling 
bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering 
thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return. 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate, 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Upon a morn in June ; 
And sae I flourished on the morn, 

And sae was pu d on noon. 



Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
That sings upon the bough ; 

Thou minds me o' the happy days, 
When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
That sings beside thy mate ; 

For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
And wist na o' my fate. 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 
To see the woodbine twine, 

And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
And sae did I o' mine. 



Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Frae off its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my 

smart, 
I lo'ed her meikle and lang : 
She's broken her vow, she's broken 

my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 

A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 

And I hae tint my dearest dear, 

But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O Woman lovely, Woman fair ! 
An Angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to've gien thee 
mair, 

I mean an Angel mind. 






222 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




THE POSIE. 

O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May. 



The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 



I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, 
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear : 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. 



AFT ON WATER. 






Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 




i 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



223 



Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 



How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 



How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. 



Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 



Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 



Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



'■MkAJ^ 



iN 






224 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 



ORAN GAOIL. 




Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! 

Thou goest, thou darling of my 
heart : 
Sever'd from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must 
part! 
I'll often greet this surging swell ; 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
' E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.' 



Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowls round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; 
' Happy, thou Indian grove,' I'll say, 

' Where now my Nancy's path mav 
be! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves 
stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ? 



WILLIE'S WIFE. 



TUNE — " TIBBIE FOWLER IN THE GLEN. 




Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an ee, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour : 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 

A whiskin beard about her mou, 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither; 
Sic a wife, &c. 



She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 



BONIE BELL. 



The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth 
the morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonie Bell. 




The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes 
tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonie Bell. 



3P&, 




■vw 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



225 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 



THE HIGHLAND WATCH S FAREWELL. 



My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night, 
For the sake o' somebody ! 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 



Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 



The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her ee : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 



Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For monie a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 



TUNE — ' WISHAW S FAVOURITE. 



O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dearj 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 



Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve, 
And fare thee weel awhile ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



PEGGY'S CHARMS. 



My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art ; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 



The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 




226 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



o, 



WAT YE WHA'S 
YON TOWN? 



IN 






THE BONIE LASS IN YON TOWN. 



O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 
Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 

The fairest dame's in yon town, 
That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest, ye flow'rs that round her 
blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest, ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear ! 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit all else below, 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er 
depart, 

And she — as fairest in her form, 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 

TUNE — 'THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DADDY.' 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my Muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

CHORUS. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's 

glow, 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Fareweel the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O ! 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



227 



JO CKE Y'S TA 'EN THE 
PARTING KISS. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee, 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



BO NIK ANN 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonie Ann : 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by 
night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van ; 
In a' their charms, and conquering 
arms, 

They wait on bonie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the 
hands, 

But love enslaves the man : 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonie Ann. 



UP IN THE MORNING 
EAR IK 

CHORUS. 

Up in the morning's no for me, 
Up in the morning early ; 

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' 
snaw, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to 
west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to 
morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, &c. 



MY BONIE MARY. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonie lassie. 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the 
ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked 
ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to 
tarry ; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary. 










.. " ..-■' 



228 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




A VISION. 



TUNE — ' CUMNOCK PSALMS. 




As I stood by yon roofless tower, 
Where the wa' flower scents the dewy 
air, 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy 
bower, 
And tells the midnight moon her 
care ; 

CHORUS. 

A lassie, all alone was making her 

moan, 
Lamenting our lads beyond the sea : 
In the bluidy wars they fa', and our 

honour's gane an' a', 
And broken-hearted we maun die. 

The winds were laid, the air was 

still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa', 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roarings swell and 
fa'. 



The cauld blue north was streaming 
forth 

Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 
Athort the lift they start and shift, 

Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine 
eyes, 
And, by the moon-beam, shook to 
see 
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to 
hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna venture't in my rhymes. 



O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST 



TUNE — ' THE LASS OF LIVINGSTONE. 



O, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around 
blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 



thee 



Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Of earth and aar, of earth and air, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The only jewel in my crown, 

Wad be my queen, wad be my 
queen. 



m 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



229 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 



My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 




Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow : 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not hei-e 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 






THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 



TUNE — ' NEIL GOW'S LAMENT. 



There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity, 

That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonie and braw, weel favour'd witha', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 





For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 

Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw: 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a haen him, 

And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha'; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 




230 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



I DREAM' D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE 
SPRLNGING. 



I dream'd I lay where flowers were 
springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds 
rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 



Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storm- 
ing 

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but 
ill; 
Of monie a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 







FAREWELL TO NANCY. 




Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 

Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge 

thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 

thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 



Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge 

thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 

thee. 



THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T. 



EAST NOOK O FIFE. 



O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



231 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR? 



Wha is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief ? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay; 
Before the morn ye '11 work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ; 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



In my bower if ye should stay ; 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ; 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay. 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 




/ DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 



I do confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart 
could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing.it meets. 



See yonder rose-bud rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 

How soon it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common 
toy! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom a while ; 

Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like onie common weed and vile. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH 



Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
But what is the north and its High- 
lands to me ? 
The south nor the east gie ease to my 
breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild 
rolling sea. 



But I look to the west, when I gae to 
rest, 
That happy my dreams and my 
slumbers may be ; 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and 
me. 




THO' CRUEL FATE. 



Tho' cruel fate should bid us 
part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 



Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 





v ^W- 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, 

And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed : 

Where the grouse, &c. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day Tang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded, fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



THE DRWS AWA WP THE EXCISEMAN 

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town, 

And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
And ilka wife cry'd ' Auld Mahoun, 

We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 

' We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il 
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 

Was — the De'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman. 
We'll mak our maut ' &c. 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



233 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 

TUNE — ' SAW YE MY FATHER ? ' 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early sang? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods amang ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caus'd this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come, then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



W# 






BANKS OF DEVON. 



How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! 

But the boniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud rose; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 







234 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE BONIE BLINK O* MARY'S EE. 



Now bank an' brae are claith'd in 
green, 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! 



The chield wha boasts o' warld's 
wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonie blink o' Mary's ee I 



THE BONIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWAY. 




TUNE — 'OWRE THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 



O how can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 
My friends they hae disown'd me a' 



But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 
And spring will deed the birken-shaw: 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
And he'll came hame that's far awa. 



STREAMS THAT GLIDE. 



TUNE — ' MORAG.' 



Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ! 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 



Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods 
wave, 
By bonie Castle Gordon. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



235 



BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL. 



Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew over me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 



LIGGERAM COSH. 



Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



THE GO WD EN LOCKS OF ANNA. 



TUNE — ' BANKS OF BANNA.' 



Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na'; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and 
west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms, 

I give and take with Anna ! 



Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 

POSTSCRIPT. 
The kirk and state may join, and tell 

To do such things I mauna : 
The kirk and state may gae to hell, 

And I'll gae to my Anna. 
She is the sunshine o' my ee, 

To live but her I canna ; 
Had I on earth but wishes three, 

The first should be mv Anna. 





O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR. 

TUNE — ' HUGHIE GRAHAM.' 



O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing ; 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom re- 
new'd. 



O gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa', 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 
Into her bonie breast to fa' ! 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to 
rest, 
Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light. 




xr^xpy 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



AD OWN WINDING NITII. 



TUNE — THE MUCKIN O GEORDIE S BYRE. 



Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they 
spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 



Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare ; 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 
So artless, so simple, so wild ; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is Simplicity's child. 
Awa, &c. 

The rose-bud's the blush 
charmer, 

Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 
How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, &c. 



Yon knot of gay flowers in the ar- 
bour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 
Her breath is the breath o' the wood- 
bine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa', &c. 

Her voice is the song of the morn- 
ing 
That wakes through the green- 
spreading grove 
When Phoebus peeps over the moun- 
tains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, &c. 

But beauty how frail and how fleet- 
ing, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o' my 
Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, &c. 



MY CHLORIS. 




The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn; 

But are their hearts as light as ours 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to 
deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 








THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



237 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 



TUNE — 'CAULD KAIL.' 



Come, let me take thee to my 
breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 



Thus in my arms, wi' all thy 
charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



THOU HAST LETT ME EVER, JAMIE. 



FEE HIM, FATHER. 



Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever ; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never ! 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, 

While my heart is breaking; 
Soon my weary een I'll close — 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken ! 




ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 



TUNE — AYE WAUKIN O. 



Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul's delight 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 



Can I cease to care, 
Can I cease to languish, 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Long, &c. 



Every hope is fled, 
Every fear is terror ; 

Slumber e'en I dread, 
Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, &c. 



238 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



CANST THOU LEAVE 
THUS. 

TUNE — ' ROY'S WIFE.' 



ME 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for 
pity ? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee 
dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c. 



O SAW YE MY DEAR. 

TUNE — 'WHEN SHE CAM BEN SHE BOBBIT.' 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a 
new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 

She lets thee to wit that she has thee 

forgot, 

And forever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's 

fair, 
Thou'st broken the heart o' thy 

Willy. 



CHARMING MONTH OF 
MAY. 

TUNE — 'DAINTY DAVIE.' 



It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and 

gay> ; 
One morning, by the break of day, 

The youthful, charming Chloe ; 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she 
goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rival'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



SONG. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But ah ! how bootless to admire ! 

When fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, 

To hope may be forgiven ; 
For sure, 'twere impious to despair 

So much in sight of heaven. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



■39 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A BALLAD. 

There were three Kings into the east, 
Three Kings both great and high, 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him 
down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly 
on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of Summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 

The sober Autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To shew their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and 
sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgel'd him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm, 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 



They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe, 
And still, as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two 
stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's 
blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 
And still the more and more they 
drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise ; 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy: 
Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 
' Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
• Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 
Ne'er.fail in old Scotland ! 



WHY, WHY TELL THY 
LOVER. 

TUNE — * CALEDONIAN HUNT'S DELIGHT.' 

Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy , ? 

Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ! 

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 




K, r ^J^r^ 



240 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



O PHILLY. 




"THE SOW S TAIL. 



HE. 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When, roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



O Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers 
above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 



The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o' my Willy. 



HE. 
The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may 

win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I care na wealth a single flie 5 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



FAREWELL TO ELIZA. 



TUNE — 'GILDEROY. 



From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my Love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 



Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



2 43* 





THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



24 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 



Mark the winds, and mark the skies 
Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 

Sun and moon but set to rise, 
Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 



TUNE — ' CORN RIGS ARE BONIE. 



It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by, wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy pface, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 



But by the moon and stars 
bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She ay shall bless that happy night 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



I hae been blythe wi' comrades 
dear; 

I hae been merry drinking ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; 

I hae been happy thinking : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, 
An' corn rigs are bonie : 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 





MY NAME, O. 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nanie, O. 



The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O : 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hill to Nanie, O. 




242 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' 
young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nanie, O. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonie, O : 

The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nanie, O. 



A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O. 



My riches a's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that hauds his 
pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nanie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nanie, O. 



NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 



TUNE — I HAD A HORSE, 1 HAD NAE MAIR. 



Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring 
guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring 
wings, 
Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I 
rove at night 
To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 
The savage and the tender ; 

Some social join, and leagues combine ; 
Some solitary wander; 



Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring 
cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading T green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome 
way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 



We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly 
prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : • 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be, as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



243 



WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. 

A FRAGMENT. 




TUNE — GILLICRANKIE. 



When Guilford good our Pilot stood, 

An' did our hellim thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery 
takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man: 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian bluid to draw, man ; 
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir Loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa',*man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwall is fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the Buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to 
save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the 
stoure, 

The German Chief to thraw, man : 



For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his 
cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North an' Fox united stocks, 

An' bore him to the wa', man. 

Then Clubs an' Hearts were Charlie's 
cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the Diamond's Ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

' Up, Willie, waur them a', man ! ' 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly 
graith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, ' Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ? 

But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood, 

To make it guid in law, man. 





* 
i'244 THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



CALEDONIA. 

TUNE — ' CALEDONIAN HUNT'S DELIGHT.' 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung : 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin triumphantly swore, 

' Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn : 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand; 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land. 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,- 

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to the hills, and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could rebel : 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror' of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 









pyH^ 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. 



THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 

TUNE — ' PREPARE, MY DEAR BRETHREN, TO THE TAVERN LET'S FLV.' 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are there, 

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, 
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That the big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

' Life's cares they are comforts,' a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown 
And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care. 





A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 




246 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 



A FRAGMENT, 



Green grow the rashes, O ; 

Green grow the rashes, O ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, &c. 



But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalterie, O ! 
Green grow, &c. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,' 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O 

The wisest man the warl' saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her prentice han* she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, &c. 



THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO HLS NATLVE 
COUNTRY. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 




The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with 

care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning 

corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it 

rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 



'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a 

wound : 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my 

foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with 

those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr ! 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



247 



THE FAREWELL. 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. 

TUNE — ' GUID NIGHT, AND JOY BE Wl' YOU a' ! ' 




Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall 
write 

Those happy scenes when far awa' ! 



May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' Omniscient eye above, 

The glorious Architect Divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till Order bright, completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

And You, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble 
name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 




FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 



Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 

The rank is but the guinea stamp ; 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
Is King o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof for a' that : 



For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 

The man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' 
worth, 
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that ; 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 
Shall brothers be for a' that. 



7: i r~--: - 





v%*<W 



ft jea«; Cgjjgy* ^si 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



AND MAUN I STILL ON MEN IE DO AT. 




TUNE— ' JOCKEY'S GREY BREEKS. 




Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning 
dews. 



CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her 
e'e? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a 
hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me, the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
And maun I still, &c. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his 
.team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 
But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 
And maun I still, &c. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 



The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 
And maun I still, &c. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles 
shill, 
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 
And maun I still, &c. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and 
dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings on flittering 
wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 
And maun I still, &c. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless 
soul, 
When Nature all is sad like me ! 
And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her 
e'e? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a 
hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 



THE AULD WIFE AYONT THE FIRE. 



Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By monie a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would 
tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 



My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer 
showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 




"And here's a hand, tny trusty fiere, 
And gies a hand d thine." — Page 249. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




249 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



THE HOPELESS LOVER. 



Now spring has clad the groves in 
green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ? 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath a shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was once that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 



Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 
And blighted a' my bloom, 

And now beneath the withering blast 
My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav' rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland's snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " Hope 
nae mair ! " 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 




AULD LANG SYNE. 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine , 
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
From mornin sun till dine ; 

But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 



250 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 



Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading 

bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 



The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then through the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 



CLARINDA. 



Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
The sun of all his joy ? 



We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day ; 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

TUNE — 'HEY TUTTIE TAITIE.' 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power ■ 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 



Wha for Scotland's King and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ? 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall — they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward! let us do, or die! 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



251 



HIGHLAND MARY. 



TUNE — ' KATHARINE OG1E. 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your 
flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green 
birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 



Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd em- 
brace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling 
glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 



TUNE — ' PUSH ABOUT THE JORUM.' 



April, 1795. 



Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink to Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rallv ! 

Fal de ral, &c. 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted ! 
Fal de ral, &c. 



The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fal de ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the 
throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing, ' God save the King,' 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, ' God save the King,' 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 









THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFE-MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR. 



THE CAMERONIAN RANT. 



' O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were you at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man ? ' 
I saw the battle, sair and teugh, 
And reeking-red ran monie a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at Kingdoms three, 
man. 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude 
outgush'd, 
And monie a bouk did fa', man : 
And great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanced twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad- 
swords clash'd, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and 
smash'd, 
Till fey men died awa, man. 




But had you seen the philibegs, 
And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the 

sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out of breath, 
They fled like frighted doos, man. 



' O how deil, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man: 
I saw mysel, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their 

flight; 
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut, 
And monie a huntit, poor red-coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man.' 

My sister Kate cam up the gate 
Wi' crowdie unto mej man ; 

She swore she saw some rebels run 
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: 

Their left-hand general had nae skill, 

The Angus lads had nae guid-will, 

That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 

For fear, by foes, that they should 
lose 

Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 
Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang, and some for 

right; 
But monie bade the world guid-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O'T 



First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 



Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd ; — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 









K^S 




THE SONGS 



How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 



Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun seeV 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 



O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME. 



O wha is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 



CHORUS. 

O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie. 

In grace and beauty charming, 
That e'en thy chosen lassie, 




Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ; 
O that's, &c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted, 
And thou art all delighted ; 
O that's, &c. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 

But her, thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
O that's, &c. 



CAPTAIN GROSE. 



TUNE — ' SIR JOHN MALCOLM. 



Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo, and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 



Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 




254 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 





O, ONCE I LOV'D A 
BONIE LASS. 

TUNE — ' I AM A MAN UNMARRIED.' 

O, once I lov'd a bonie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de ral, &c. 

As bonie lasses I hae seen, 

And monie full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the ee, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars onie dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul ! 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 

Fal lal de ral, &c. 

A BOTTLE AND FRIEND. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man : — 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 




I'LL KISS THEE YET. 



TUNE — ' THE BRAES O' BALQUHIDDER.' 



I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again, 

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 
My bonie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young Kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 

And by thy een sae bonie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O ; — 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my een sae bonie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma' ; 
An' aye my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and 
snaw ; 
And o'er the lea I look fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
An' aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a' ; 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



255 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 
TUNE — 'THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY.' 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary. 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, ■ 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the 
famous job — 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment the tenth remem- 
ber'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shews that heaven can boil the 
pot, 

Though the devil piss in the fire. 

Squire Hal besides had, in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d've 



To their gratis grace and goodness. 



As 



the 



once on Pisgah purg'd was 
sight 
Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 
Bob's purblind, mental vision ; 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd 
yet, 
Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 
That met the Ass of Balaam. 

In your heretic sins may ye live and die, 
Ye heretic eight and thirty ! 



But accept, ye sublime Majority, 
My congratulations hearty, 

With your Honors and a certain 
King 
In your servants this is striking — 

The more incapacity they bring, 
The more they're to your liking. 



M'PHERSON'S 
WELL. 



FARE- 



Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 
strong, 

The wretch's destinie : 
M'Pherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows tree. 

CHORUS. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; • 
He play'd a spring and danc'd it 
round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ? — 

On monie a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 
Sae rantingly, &c. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 
And bring to me my sword ! 

And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, &c. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 
Sae rantingly, &c. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine 
bright, 
And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 
The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, &c. 










S^^*"^r-vjqp^-r 





THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 



IF HE BE A BUTCHER NEAT AND TRIM. 







On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells ; 

Could I describe her shape and mien ; 
Our lasses a' she far excels, 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



She's sweeter than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



She's stately like yon youthful ash 
That grows the cowslip braes be- 
tween, 
And drinks the stream with vigour 
fresh ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so 
green, 
When purest in the dewy morn ; 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her looks are like the vernal May, 
Whenev'ning Phcebus shines serene, 

While birds rejoice on every spray ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



Her hair is like the curling mist 

That climbs the mountain-sides at 
e'en, 
When flow'r-reviving rains are past; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When gleaming sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 



Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, 
The pride of all the flowery scene, 

Just opening on its thorny stem ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her teeth are like the nightly snow 

When pale the morning rises keen, 
While hid the murmuring streamlets 
flow; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 
They tempt the taste and charm the 
sight ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparkliiT 
een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks un- 
seen, 
While his mate sits nestling in the 
bush ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her 
face, 

Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 

An' chiefly in her rogueish een. 



^tew 




^-v 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 



TUNE — LAST TIME I CAM O ER THE MUIR. 



Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has grac'd them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 



Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth 

From ev'ry ill defend her: 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 




I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 



I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green again ; 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail 
guess, 
What brings me back the gate again, 



But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 
And stownlins we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree 
When trystin - time draws ne 
again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 




PRAYER FOR MARY. 



TUNE — 'BLUE BONNETS. 



Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 



Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown whilefate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. 



258 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THERE WAS A LAD. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 



There was a lad was born at Kyle, 
But what'n a day o' what'n a style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 

Robin was a rovin' Bo)', 
Rantin, rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 



He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit to us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 



Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, 
Ye gar the lasses . . . 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessings on thee, Robin ! 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 



Sir, 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES 

HAME. 

A SONG. 

By yon castle wa\ at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey : 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; 
But till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



259 



TO MARY. 



EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. 



Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to be 
true; 



And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part 

us! 
The hour, and the moment o' time ! 




MARY M ORISON. 



TUNE— 'BIDE YE YET. 



O Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor ; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 



Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
' Ye are na Mary Morison.' 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER 

SON 



F1NLAYSTON HOUSE. 



P"ate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart ! 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid: 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 



The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond, I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 






26o THE SONGS OF BURNS. 

THE SOGER'S RETURN. 

TUNE — ' THE MILL MILL O.' 






When wild war's deadly blast was 
blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning : 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest soger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reached the bonie glen, 

Where early life I sported; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a soger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like onie lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By Him who made yon sun and sky, 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded ! 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come 
hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithful soger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs 
main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the soger's prize ; 

The soger's wealth is honour : 
The brave poor soger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his Country's stay 

In the day and hour o' danger. 








THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, Fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee 

He'd look into thy bonie face, 
And say, ' I canna wrang thee.' 



The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee 

Return again, Fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonie. 



AMANG THE TREES. 



THE KING OF FRANCE, HE RADE A RACE. 



Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing ; O 
'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspey, or 
Reels, 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign 
squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 



Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie ; O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary : O — 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 




ON SENSIBILITY. 



TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOR 



AIR — SENSIBILITY. 



Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 



Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys ; 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



SWEETEST MAY. 




Sweetest May, let love inspire thee 
Take a heart which he designs thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 



Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy, but the bonie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it ! 



262 77//f SONGS OF BURNS, 

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

TUNE — ' THE WEAVER AND HIS SHUTTLE, O.' 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O 

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O 

For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O 
My talents they were not the worst; nor yet my education, O 
Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour ; O 
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour ; O 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; sometimes by friends forsaken ; O 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion ; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion ; O 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill untried ; O 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to befriend me ; O 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early ; O 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O 
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber ; O 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow : O 
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O 

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice ; O 

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther ; O 

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me ; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly; O 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther ; O 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O. 



< 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



WHEN FIRST I CAME TO 
STEWART KYLE. 

TUNE — ' I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR.' 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was na steady, 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline 
town, 

Not dreadin' onie body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



MONTG OMERIE 'S 
PEGGY. 

TUNE — ' GALLA WATER.' 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomerie's 
Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and 
rainy ; 
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's 
Peggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 
And horse and servants waiting 
ready, 
Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 

The sharin't wi' Montgomerie's 
Peggy. 



O RAGING FORTUNE'S 
WITHERING BLAST 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low! O 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O. 



My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow ; O 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 
And made my branches grow ; O. 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 

TUNE — ' FOR A' THAT.' 

Tho' women's minds like winter winds 
May shift and turn, and a' that, 

The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A consequence I draw that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 
And twice as meikle's a' that, 

The bonie lass that I loe best 
She'll be my ain for a' that. 

Great love I bear to all the fair, 

Their humble slave, and a' that ; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, &c. 

But there is ane aboon the lave, 
Has wit, and sense, and a' that ; 

A bonie lass, I like her best, 
And wha a crime dare ca' that ? 
For a' that, &c. 

In rapture sweet this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that ; 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me 
daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here's ' The 
Sex!' 
I like the jades for a' that. 
For a' that, &c. 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 





ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 



On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest ; 

When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood, 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he 
blush'd, 
And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 
Were seal'd in soft repose ; 

Her lips, still as she fragrant breath'd, 
It richer dy'd the rose. 

The springing lilies sweetly prest, 
Wild-wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he 
blush'd, 
His bosom ill at rest. 



Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 
Her tender limbs embrace ! 

Her lovely form, her native ease, 
All harmony and grace ! 

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A faltering ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he 
blush'd, 
And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake 

On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, starting, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs : 

But Willie follow'd — as he should, 
He overtook her in the wood : 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the 
■ maid 
Forgiving all, and good. 




EVAN BANKS. 



TUNE — SAVOURNA DEL1SH. 




Slow spreads the gloom my soul 

desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires : 
To Evan Banks with temp'rate ray, 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 

Oh Banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh stream, whose murmurs still I hear ! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye : 



Ye lofty Banks that Evan bound, 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows 

throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 

What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs ! 
Sweet Banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest Stream! she views thee haste to 
Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ! 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
No more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to 
Clyde ! 






1 Sweet Batiks .' ye hloom by Mary 's side: 
Blest stream.' she views thee haste to Clyde." — Page 264. 








THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



265 



TO MARY IN HEA VEN. 



MISS FORBES FAREWELL TO BANFF. 



Thou lingering star, with less'ning 
ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ? 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports 
past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our 
last! 



Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning 
green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd 
scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper 
wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 



TO MARY. 



Could aught of song declare my pains, 
Could artful numbers move thee, 

The Muse should tell, in labour'd 
strains, 
O Mary, how I love thee ! 

They who but feign a wounded heart 
May teach the lyre to languish ; 

But what avails the pride of art, 
When wastes the soul with anguish ? 



Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart-felt pang discover; 

And in the keen, yet tender eye, 
O read th' imploring lover ! 



For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdains art's gay disguising; 

Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 
The voice of nature prizing. 



ERA G ME NT 



Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her ! 



Her lips are roses wet wi' dew ! 

O, what a feast her bonie mou 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner! 



' 





266 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL 
DUMOURIER. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 

You're welcome to Despots, Du- 

mourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Du- 

mourier ; 
How does Dampiere do ? 
Aye, and Bournonville too ? 
Why did they not come along with you, 

Dumourier ? 

I will fight France with you, Du- 
mourier; 

I will fight France with you, Du- 
mourier ; 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, 
Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
Then let us fight about, 
Till freedom's spark is out, 
Then we'll be damn'd no doubt — 
Dumourier. 



ONE NIGHT AS I DID 
WANDER. 

TUNE — * JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.' 

One night as I did wander, 
When corn begins to shoot, 

I sat me down to ponder, 
Upon an auld tree root : 

Auld Ayre ran by before me, 
And bicker'd to the seas ; 

A cushat crooded o'er me 

That echoed through the braes. 



PM OWRE YOUNG 
MARRY YET 



TO 



I am my mammie's ae bairn, 
Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir ; 

And lying in a man's bed, 
I'm fley'd wad mak me eerie, Sir. 

CHORUS. 

I'm owre young, I'm owre young, 
I'm owre young to marry yet; 

I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin 
To tak me frae my mammie yet. 

My mammie coft me a new gown, 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 

Were I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Hallowmas is come and gane, 
The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 

And you an' I in ae bed, 

In troth I dare na venture, Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 



DAMON AND SYLVIA. 

TUNE — 'THE TITHER MORN, AS I FORLORN.' 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 
And glances o'er the brae, Sir: 

Slides by a bower where monie a flower 
Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 
To love they thought nae crime, Sir; 

The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 
While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



j3S& 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO 
THEM THAT'S AWA. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our 

cause, 
May never guid luck be their fa'! 
It's guid to be merry and wise, 
It's guid to be honest and true, 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to Charlie the chief o' 

the clan, 
Altho' that his band be sma'. 
May liberty meet wi' success ! 
May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the 

mist, 
And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
Here's a health to Tammie, the Nor- 
land laddie, 
That lives at the lug o' the law ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth 

should be heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain 

worth gowd, 
Tho' bred among mountains o' snaw ! 

O LEAVE NOVELS. 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel, 




They heat your brains, and fire your 
veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob 
Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress, 
Are worse than poison'd darts of 
steel, 

The frank address, and politesse, 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



THE TORBOLTON 
LASSES. 

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, 
Ye'll there see bonie Peggy; 

She kens her father is a laird, 
And she forsooth's a leddy. 

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright, 
Besides a handsome fortune : 

Wha canna win her in a night, 
Has little art in courting. 

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale, 

And tak a look o' Mysie ; 
She's dour and din, a deil within, 

But aiblins she may please ye. 

If she be shy, her sister try, 

Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny, 
If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense, 

She kens hersel she's bonie. 

As ye gae up by yon hill-side, 

Speer in for bonie Bessy; 
She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light, 

And handsomely address ye. 

There's few sae bony, nane sae gude, 
In a' King George' dominion ; 

If ye should doubt the truth o' this — 
It's Bessy's ain opinion ! 







Fl*S?PS^99r^aS9£? 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




THE TORBOLTON LASSES. 



In Torbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men, 
And proper young lasses and a', man ; 

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals, 
They carry the gree frae them a', man. 

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare 't, 

Braid money to tocher them a', man, 
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand 

Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man. 

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen 

As bonie a lass or as braw, man, 
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best, 

And a conduct that beautifies a', man. 

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine, 
The mair admiration they draw, man ; 

While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies, 
They fade and they wither awa, man. 

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien', 

A hint o' a rival or twa, man, 
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire, 

If that wad entice her awa, man. 

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed, 
For mair than a towmond or twa, man, 

The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board, 
If he canna get her at a', man. 

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin, 

The boast of our bachelors a', man : 
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete, 

She steals our affections awa, man. 

If I should detail the pick and the wale 

O' lasses that live here awa, man, 
The fault wad be mine, if they didna shine, 

The sweetest and best o' them a', man. 

I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell, 

My poverty keeps me in awe, man, 
For making o' rhymes, and working at times, 

Does little or naething at a', man. 







I 



THE SONGS OF BURNS, 





Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse, 
Nor ha'e 't in her power to say na, man 

For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure, 
My stomach's as proud as them a', man 



Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride, 
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man, 

I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed, 
Though fluttering ever so braw, man. 



My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best, 
O' pairs o' guid breeks I ha'e twa, man, 

And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps, 
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man. 



My sarks they are few, but five o' them new, 
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man 

A ten-shilling's hat, a Holland cravat; 
There are no mony poets sae braw, man. 



I never had frien's, weel stockit in means, 
To leave me a hundred or twa, man, 

Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants, 
And wish them in hell for it a', man. 

I never was canny for hoarding o' money, 

Or claughtin't together at a', man, 
I've little to spend, and naething to lend, 

But deevil a shilling I awe, man. 



THE WINTER IT IS PAST 

A FRAGMENT. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last, 
And the small birds sing on every tree ; 

Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, 
Since my true love is parted from me. 



The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 




270 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

TUNE — ' CAPTAIN O'KEAN.' 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves' returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 
While the lingering moments are number'd by care ? 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 
A King or a Father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return ? 



THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 

TUNE — ' BONNIE DUNDEE.' 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles, 
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',. 

Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : 

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw : 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



WEE WILLIE. 



Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 

Peel a willow-wand, to be him boots and jacket: 

The rose upon the briar will be him trouse and doublet, 

The rose upon the briar will be him trouse and doublet ! 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 

Twice a lily flower will be him sark and cravat ; 

Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 

Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



271 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. 



CHORUS. 

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't 
And govvden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane, 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 
My lady's gown, &c. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude, 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
My lady's gown, &c. 



Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather 

pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

My lady's gown, &c. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims, 
My lady's gown, &c. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady's gown, &c. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HA IRS T. 



Robin shure in hairst, 
I shure wi' him, 

Fient a heuk had I, 
Yet I stack by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden, 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 



Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick 

And me the eller's dochter? 
Robin shure, &c. 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, &c. 



O WHY THE DEUCE. 



EXTEMPORE. APRIL 1782. 



O why the deuce should I repine, 

And be an ill foreboder ? 
I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine — 

I'll go and be a sodger. 



I gat some gear wi' meikle care, 

I held it weel thegither ; 
But now it's gain and something mair, 

I'll go and be a sodger. 





272 THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




^p^t; 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

A BALLAD. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome 
plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I 
rang'd, 
Tho' prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



BONIE PEG. 

As I came in by our gate end, 

As day was waxin' weary, 
O wha came tripping down the street, 

But bonie Peg, my dearie ! 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting, 

The Queen of Love did never move 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 
A-down yon winding river ; 

And, oh ! that hour and broomy bower, 
Can I forget it ever ? 



O GUID ALE COMES. 



O guid ale comes, and guid ale gees, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sen my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

I had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' weel eneough, 
I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 




Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes, &c. 



O LAY THY LOOP IN 
MINE, LASS. 

CHORUS. 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass, 

And swear in thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou be my ain. 
O lay thy loof, &c. 

There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art Queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 
O lay thy loof, &c. 

O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG 
ME. 

CHORUS. 

O ay my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife did bang me ; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith she'll soon o'ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I marry'd ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 
When a' thir days are done, man, 

My pains o' hell on earth are past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife, &c. 





'Kr*m- 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



VI 



POLLY STEWART. 

TUNE — ' YE'RE WELCOME, CHARLEY STEWART.' 
CHORUS. 

O lovely Polly Stewart, 
O charming Polly Stewart, 

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in 
May, 
That's half so fair as thou art. 



The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 
And art can ne'er renew it; 

But worth and truth eternal youth 
Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy 
charms, 
Possess a leal and true heart; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 
He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
O lovely, &c. 



THE DEUK'S DANG O'ER 
MY DADDIE. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 

The deuk's dang o'er my daddie, O ! 
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld 
wife, 

He was but a paidlin body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in, 

An' he paidles late and early, O; 
This seven lang years I hae lien by his 
side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. 

O haud your tongue, my feirie auld 
wife, 

O haud your tongue now, Nansie, O : 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, 6 ; 
I've seen the day ye butter'dmy brose, 

And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O; 
But downa do's come o'er me now, 

And, oh, I find it sairly, ! 



THE UNLON. 

TUNE — ' SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A 
NATION.' 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory ! 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial story ! 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 

And Tweed rins to the ocean, 
To mark where England's province 
stands ; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

What guile or force could not subdue, 

Through many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valour's station, 
But English gold has been our bane ; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

O would, or I had seen the day 

That treason thus could sell us, 
My auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour 

I'll mak this declaration, 
We're bought and sold for English gold: 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

THERE WAS A BONLE 
LASS. 

There was a bonie lass, and a bonie, 
bonie lass, 
And she lo'ed her bonie laddie dear ; 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie 
frae her arms, 
Wi' monie a sigh and tear. 

Over sea, over shore, where the can- 
nons loudly roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear : 
And nocht could him quell, or his 
bosom assail, 
But the bonie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 








^p» - 



274 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE FIVE CARLINS, 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 

TUNE — ' CHEVY CHASE.' 





There were five Carlins in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 

Not only bring us tidings hame, 

But do our errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' 
Nith, 

A dame wi' pride eneugh ; 
And Marjorie o' the monie Lochs, 

A Carlin auld an' teugh. 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, 
That dwells near Solway side, 

And whisky Jean that took her gill 
In Galloway so wide. 

And auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin, 
Five wighter Carlins were na foun' 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a 
Laird, 

That errand fain would gae. 

O ! monie a Knight and monie a 
Laird, 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ! ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border clan, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstan': 




And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wae say, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then neist came in a sodger youth, 
And spak wi' modest grare, 

An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gift, 
Nor meikle speech pretend ; 

But he wad hecht an honest heart 
Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now wham to choose and wham refuse, 

To strife thae Carlins fell ; 
For some had gentle folk to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 
An' she spak out wi' pride, 

An' she wad send the sodger youth 
Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She didna care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 

For far aff fowls hae feathers fair, 
An' fools o' change are fain : 

But I hae tried the border Knight, 
I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

A Carlin stoor and grim, 
The auld guidman or young guidman, 

For me may sink or swim ! 







THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



For fools may freit o' right andwrang, 
While knaves laugh them to scorn: 

But the sodger's friends hae blawn the 
best, 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

Ye weel ken kimmers a' 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, — 

We'll send the border Knight. 



Then slow raise Marjorie o' the Lochs, 
And wrinkled was her brow ; 

Her ancient weed was russet gray, 
Her auld Scots bluid was true. 

There's some great folks set light by 
me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town, 

Wha I lo'e best at hame. 

So how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell ; 
God grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel' ! 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 



TUNE — 'HIGHLANDERS LAMENT. 



My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strade he on the plain! 

But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

CHORUS. 

for him back again, 
O for him back again, 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land, 
For Highland Harry back again. 



When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
I wander dowie up the glen ; 

I sit me down and greet my fill, 
And ay I wish him back again. 
O for him, &c. 

O were some villains hangit high, 
And ilka body had their ain, 

Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again ! 
O for him, &c. 




AS DOWN THE BURN THEY TOOK THELR WAY. 



As down the burn they took their way, 
And thro' the flowery dale ; 

His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 
And love was av the tale. 



With ' Mary, when we shall return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ? ' 
Quoth Mary, ' Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you.' 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER! 



TUNE — ' THE JOB OF JOURNEY-WORK.' 



Altho' my back be at the wa', 
And tho' he be the fautor ; 

Altho' my back be at the wa', 
Yet, here's his health in water! 

O ! wae gae by his wanton sides, 
Sae brawlie he could flatter; 



Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 
And dree the kintra clatter. 

But tho' my back be at the wa', 
And tho' he be the fautor ; 

But tho' my back be at the wa', 
Yet, here's his health in water ! 








276 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME. 




When Januar' wind was blawing 
cauld, 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 
Just in the middle o' my care ; 

And kindly she did me incite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And bade her mak a bed to me. 

She made the bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it 
down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, 
And drank, * Young man, now sleep 
ye soun.' 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 

But I call'd her quickly back again 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect ; 

And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I put my arms about her neck. 

' Haud aff your hands, young man,' 
she says, 

' And dinna sae uncivil be : 
If ye hae onie love for me, 

O wrang na my virginitie ! ' 



Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 
Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
And aye she wist na what to say ; 

I laid her between me and the 
wa', — 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 
I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 

But aye she blush'd, and aye she 
sigh'd, 
And said, ' Alas ! ye've ruin'd me.' 

I clasp'd her waist, .and kiss'd her 
syne, 
While the tear stood twinklin in her 
ee ; 
I said, ' My lassie, dinna cry, 
For ye ay shall mak the bed to me.' 

She took her mither's Holland sheets, 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 

Blythe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

The bonie lass made the bed to me, 
The braw lass made the bed to me : 

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, 
The lass that made the bed to me! 



CRAIGIE-B URN- WO OD. 



CHORUS. 

dearie, beyond 



thee, 



Beyond thee 
dearie, 

And O to be lying beyond thee, 
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he 
sleep, 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 



Sweet closes the evening on Craigie- 
burn-wood, 
And blythely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the 
Craigie-burn-wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, &c. 




I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But pleasure they hae nane for me, 
While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

I canna tell, I maun na tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart 

If I conceal it langer. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

I see thee gracefu', straight and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonie, 



To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

An' a' my days o' life to come, 

I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, &c. 



LADY ON LIE. 



RUFFIAN S RANT, 



A' the lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Ladie Onlie, honest Lucky, 
Brews good ale at shore o 
Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her gude ale, 
The best on a' the shore o 
Bucky. 



Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 
And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 
Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 
Brews gude ale at shore o' 
Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her gude ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' 
Bucky. 



OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR. 



TUNE — " AWA WHIGS, AWA. 



CHORUS. 
Awa Whigs, awa ! 

Awa Whigs, awa ! 
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 

Ye'll do nae good at a'. 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 
And bonie bloom'd our roses ; 

But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
And wither'd a' our posies. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — 
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't ; 

And write theirnames in his black beuk, 
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 



Our sad decay in Church and State 

Surpasses my descriving; 
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, 

And we hae done wi' thriving. 

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 
But we may see him wauken ; 

Gude help the day when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin. 

Awa Whigs, awa ! 

Awa Whigs, awa 
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 

Ye'll do nae gude at a'. 







W^pKJB 



278 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



AS I WAS A WANDERING. 



TUNE — RINN MEUDIAL MO MHEALLADH. 

As I was a wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 

The pipers and youngsters were making their game ; 

Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 



Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him ; 

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



I could get na sleeping till dawin' for greetin', 

The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain: 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For, oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 



Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 
I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 

I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 



Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, 
I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 

I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 



TUNE — JOHNNY M GILL. 





O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

1 care na thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, 

Had I the wyte she bade me ; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, 

And up the loan she shaw'd me ; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me ; 
Had kirk and state been in the gate, 

I lighted when she bade me. 

Sae craftilie she took me ben, 

And bade me make nae clatter; 
' For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman 

Is out and owre the water : ' 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace, 

When I did kiss and dawte her, 
Let him be planted in my place, 

Syne say I was the fautor. 



279 



HAD I THE WYTE. 



HAD I THE WYTE SHE BADE ME. 



Could I for shame, could I for shame, 

Could I for shame refused her, 
And wadna manhood been to blame, 

Had I unkindly used her ? 
He clawed her wi' the ripplin-kame, 

And blue and bluidy bruised her ; 
When sic a husband was frae hame, 

What wife but had excused her ? 

I dighted ay her een sae blue, 

And bann'd the cruel randy ; 
And weel I wat her willing mou' 

Was e'en like sugar-candy. 
A gloamin-shot it was I trow, 

I lighted on the Monday ; 
But I cam through the Tysday's dew, 

To wanton Wil lie's brandy. 




HER DADDIE FORBAD. 



JUMPIN JOHN. 



Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad ; 

Forbidden she wadna be : 
She wadna trow't, the browst she 
brew'd 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonie lassie, 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonie lassie. 



A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, 
And thretty gude shillin's and three ; 
A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's 
dochter, 
The lass with the bonie black e'e. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonie lassie, 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
BeoTiiled the bonie lassie. 



HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 



THE DUSTY MILLER. 



Hey, the dusty miller, 

And his dusty coat ; 

He will win a shilling, 

Or he spend a groat. 

Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 

That I got frae the miller. 



Hey, the dusty miller, 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty sill< 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 






Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 

O braw lads of Galla Water ! 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 

And follow my love through the 
water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonie blue her een, my dearie ; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 

O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 

I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love through the 
water. 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 

Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost a silken snood, 

That cost her mony a blirt and 

bleary. 
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 

O braw lads of Galla Water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love through the 
water. 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFE- 
CHAN. 

TUNE — ' JACKY LATIN.' 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me, 

O gat ye me wi' naething ? 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye, my bonie sel', 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 



haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

haud your tongue and jauner ; 

1 held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure ; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie 
Laing, 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



BEE BALOU. 



TUNE — THE HIGHLAND BALOU. 

Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald ; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 

Leeze me on thy bonie craigie, 
An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie : 
Travel the country thro' and thro', 
And bring hame a Carlisle cow. 

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furrder : 
Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. 



THE CARD IN' O'T 

TUNE — ' SALT FISH AND DUMPLINGS.' 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a coat to Johnny o't; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 

And tho' his brow be beld aboon ; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 




" Gin a body meet a body — 
Coming through the rye." — Page 281. 




THE SONGS OE BURNS. 



28 1 



PEG-A-RAMSEY. 

TUNE — ' CAULD IS THE E'ENIN' BLAST.' 

Cauld is the e'enin' blast 
O' Boreas o'er the pool, 

And dawin' it is dreary 
When birks are bare at Yule. 

O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost, 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But bonie Peg-a-Ramsey 
Gat grist to her mill. 



^OMING THROUGH THE 
RYE. 

TUNE — 'COMING THROUGH THE RYE.' 

Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye, 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body — 
Coming through the rye ; 

Gin a body kiss a body — 
Need a body cry ? 

Gin a body meet a bodv 

Coming through the glen, 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need the world ken ? 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 



COME BOAT ME O'ER TO 
CHARLIE. 

TUNE — 'O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.' 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 
Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 

I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, 
To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and 

And live or die wi' Charlie. 

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him : 

But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, 
And Charlie's faes before him ! 

I swear arid vow by moon and stars, 

And sun that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 

I'd die as aft for Charlie. 
We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather 
and go, 

And live or die wi' Charlie ! 

BANNOCKS <9' BARLEY. 

TUNE — ' THE KILLOGIE.' 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ; 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 









r\ -^- T ■> ..\.;.''-<^'*»': I ""' '--•**J>'*l5S| 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



7 HE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 



TUNE — ' MAGGY LAUDER. 



I married with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty years 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she 
steer'd, 

And gone I know not whither : 



Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her ; 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her 
voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE. 




TUNE — * THE MAID S COMPLAINT. 



It is na, Jean, thy bonie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Although thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 



Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Than if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, 

For the lands of Virginia, O ; 
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow or frost, 

Like the lands of Virginia, O ; 
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, 

In the lands of Virginia, O ; 
And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 








THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



283 



HERE'S TO THY HEAITH, MY BONIE LASS. 



TUNE — LAGGAN BURN. 



Here's to thy health, my bonie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 

I'll come nae mair to thy bower 
door, 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
But I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 
How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry ; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee. 



I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae lang as I'll enjoy it: 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far aff fowls hae feathers fair, 

And ay until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon 
shines bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



MY HEART WAS ANCE. 



TUNE — TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO. 



My heart was ance as blythe and free 
As simmer days were lang, 

But a bonie, westlin weaver lad 
Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 
To the weavers gin ye go ; 

I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 
To the weavers gin ye go. 

My mither sent me to the town, 

To warp a plaiden wab ; 
But the weary, weary warpin o't 

Has gart me sigh and sab. 

A bonie westlin weaver lad 

Sat working at his loom ; 
He took my heart as wi' a net, 

In every knot and thrum. 



I sat beside my warpin-wheel, 

And ay I ca'd it roun' ; 
But every shot and every knock, 

My heart it gae a stoun. 

The moon was sinking in the west 

Wi' visage pale and wan, 
As my bonie westlin weaver lad 

Convoy'd me thro' the glen. 

But what was said, or what was done, 

Shame fa' me gin I tell ; 
But oh ! I fear the kintra soon 

Will ken as weel's mysel. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 
To the weavers gin ye go ; 

I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 
To the weavers gin ye go. 





284 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

TUNE — ' JAMIE, COME TRY ME.' 
CHORUS. 

Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should ask my love, 

Could I deny thee ? 
If thou would win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should kiss me, love, 

Wha could espy thee ? 
If thou wad be my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 
Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 

LANDLADY, COUNT THE 

LA WIN. 

TUNE — 'HEY TUTTI, TAITI.' 

Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin ; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly fou. 

Hey tutti, taiti, 

How tutti, taiti — 

Wha's fou now ? 

Cog an' ye were ay fou, 
Cog an' ye were ay fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you 
If ye were ay fou. 

Weel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never see ! 
God bless the King, boys, 
And the companie ! 

Hey tutti, taiti, 

How tutti, taiti — 

Wha's fou now? 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A 
LASSIE YET. 

TUNE — ' LADY BADINSCOTH's REEL.' 

My love she's but a lassie yet ; 

My love she's but a lassie yet ; 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, 

But he may say he's bought her, O ! 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't 
yet; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will,- 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't, 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 



THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 



TUNE — O MOUNT AND GO. 



O mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready 
O mount and go, 

And be the Captain's Lady 

When the drums do beat, 
And the cannons rattle, 

Thou shalt sit in state, 
And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquish'd foe 
Sues for peace and quiet, 

To the shades we'll go, 
And in love enjoy it. 

O mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready 
O mount and go, 

And be the Captain's Lady. 



►>™ 



f 



LADY MARY ANN. 



CRAGTOWN S GROWING. 




O, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a' ; 
My bonie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 

O father ! O father ! 

An' ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet : 
"We'll sew a green ribbon 

Round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonie was its hue ! 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonie and bloomin' 

And straught was its make ■ 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

O' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane 

When the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

That we hae seen : 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



Simmer's a pleasant time, ' 

Flow'rs of ev'ry colour ; 
The water rins o er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

When I sleep I dream, 
When I wauk I'm eerie ; 

Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping ; 
I think on my bonie lad 
And I bleer my een with greetin' 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie ; • 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

SAE FAR AWA. 

TUNE — ' DALKEITH MAIDEN BRIDGE. 



O sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this Fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 









THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S 
BONIE MARY. 

TUNE — ' THE RUFFIAN'S RANT.' 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawin in the sky 

We drank a health to bonie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary ; 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry, 
An' ay they dimpled wi' a smile 
The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary, 
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie 
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 

We lap an' danced the lee-lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae an' weary, 
But Charlie gat the spring to pay 
For kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie 
Kissin' Theniel's bonie 'Mary. 



THE FAREWELL. 

TUNE — ' IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU* KING. 

It was a' for our rightfu' King, 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; 

It was a' for our rightfu' King 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main, 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 



He turn'd him right and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear ; 

With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns, 

The sailor frae the main ; 
But I hae parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, 

My dear ; 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa', 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear ; 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 

RATTLIN\ ROARIN' 
WLLLIE. 

TUNE — ' RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE.' 

O rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

An' buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his ee ; 
And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

sell your fiddle sae fine ; 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine ! 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

1 cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en', 
Sitting at yon board en', 

And amang guid companie ; 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



287 



LOVELY DAVIES. 

TUNE — ' MISS MUIR.' 

how shall I, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation, 

The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whisper inspiration ? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair, 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse, 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 
Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning, 
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart 'when we maun 
part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A scepter'd hand, a King's command, 

Is in her darting glances : 
The man in arms, 'gainst female 
charms, 

Even he her willing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 
My Muse to dream of such a theme, 

Her feeble powers surrender ; 
The eagle's gaze alone surveys 

The sun's meridian splendour : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
The deed too daring brave is ; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 



KENMURE'S ON AND 

AWA. 

TUNE— 'O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE.' 

O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie ! 

O Kenmure's on and awa ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 



Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, 
Willie! 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 
blude, 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

O Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal 
true — 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie, 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far away, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa ; 
And here's the flower that I love best — 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 



O STEER HER UP. 



TUNE — - O STEER HER UP, AND HAUD HER GAUN. 

O steer her up, and haud her gaun — 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gin she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo ; 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo, 
And gin she take the thing amiss, 

E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 

O steer her up, and be no blate, 

And gin she tak it ill, jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo ; 
Then gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'll fin' anither will, jo. 





288 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 





THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 

' TUNE — ' TO DAUNTON ME.' 

The blude red rose at Yule may blavv, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee — 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



O, WHAR DID YE GET. 

TUNE — ' BONIE DUNDEE.' 

O, WHAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock ? 

O silly blind body, O dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnston and bonie Dundee. 
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me up on his knee ; 
May Heaven protect my bonie Scots laddie, 

And send him safe hame to his baby and me ! 

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, 
My blessin's upon thy bonie e'e brie ! 

Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 
Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me ! 




THE SONGS OF BURNS. 






But I'll big a bower on yon bonie banks, 
Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 

And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, 
And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 

MERRY HAE I BEEN TEE THIN' A HECKLE, 

TUNE — 'LORD BREADALBANE's MARCH.' 

O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, 

And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon ; 
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, 

And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer. 

An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, 
A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, 

An' a' the lang night as happy's a King. 

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Bless'd be the hour she cool'd in her linnens, 

And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms, and kiss me again ! 
Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And bless'd be the day I did it again. 

O MAZLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 
As I was walking up the street, 

A barefit maid I chanced to meet ; 
But O the road was very hard 

For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 

Were weel laced up in silken shoon, 
And 'twere more fit that she should sit 

Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 




2Q0 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE, 



TUNE — ' KILLIECRANKIE.' 




O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or we will send a man-o'-law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 

Come, will ye court a noble lord, 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 

When Love and Beauty heard the news, 
The gay green-woods amang, man ; 

Where gathering flowers and busking 
bowers, 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man ; 

A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss 
Sir Politics to fetter, 

As their's alone, the patent-bliss, 
To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth,on gleesome wing, 
O'er hill and dale she flew, man ; 

Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, 
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 



She summon'd every social sprite, 
That sports by wood or water, 

On th' bonie banks of Ayr to meet, 
And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals through the 
trees, 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man ! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man ! 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics came there, to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man : 
He blush'd for shame, he quat his name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



NITHSDALE'S WELCOME NAME. 




The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border, 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, 

An' set them a' in order, 
And they declare Terreagle's fair, 

For their abode they choose it; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 



Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

And angry tempests gather ; 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May hae a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief- 

Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



291 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 



Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-011, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was nae sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 



I was the happiest of the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine ; 
For Donald was the brawest lad, 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free ; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then, 

For Scotland and for me. 

Their waefu' fate what need I tell, 
Right to the wrang did yield : 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden's field. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



THE TITHER MORN. 



The tither morn, 

When I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, 

I'd see my Jo, 
Beside me, gain the gloaming. 

But he sae trig, 

Lap o'er the rig, 
And dawtingly did cheer me, 

When I, what reck, 

Did least expec', 
To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
Cock'd sprush when first he clasped me ; 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' fainness grat, 
While in his grips he press'd me, 



Deil tak' the war ! 

I late and air, 
Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad, 
As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' dancing keen, 
When a' were blythe and merry, 

I car'd na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In absence o' my dearie. 

But, praise be blest, 

My mind's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se ay be there, 
And be as canty's ony. 





TUNE — * UP WI THE PLOUGHMAN. 

The ploughman he's a bonie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo, 
His garters knit below his knee, 

His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

CHORUS. 

Then up wi't a', my ploughman 
lad, 

And hey, my merry ploughman ; 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 

Commend me to the ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hame at 
e'en, 
He's aften wat and weary ; 
Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 
And gae to bed, my Dearie ! 
Up wi't a', &c. 

I will wash my ploughman's hose, 
And I will dress his o'erlay ; 

I will mak my ploughman's bed, 
And cheer him late and early. 
Up wi't a', &c. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston, 

The boniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 
Up wi't a', &c. 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 
And siller buckles glancin' ; 

A gude blue bannet on his head, 
And O, but he was handsome ! 
Up wi't a', &c. 

Commend me to the barn yard, 

And the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fou 

Till I met wi' the ploughman. 
Up wi't a', &c. 



TUNE — BAB AT THE BOWSTER. 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam here awa, 
And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — 
And our gude-wife has gotten a ca' 

That anger'd the silly gude-man, O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door ; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 

He sought them out, he sought them in, 

Wi', Deil hae her ! and, Deil hae him ! 

But the body was sae doited and blin', 

He wist na where he was gaun, O. 

They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at 

morn, 
Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn ; 
On ilka brow she's planted a horn, 

And swears that they shall stan', O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door ; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 



WHARE HAE YE BEEN. 

TUNE — ' KILLIECRANKIE.' 

Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O ? 
O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ; 
An' ye had been whare I hae been, 

Ye wad na been so cantie, O ; 
An' ye had seen what I hae seen, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O ; 
But I met the Devil an' Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

An' Clavers got a clankie, O ; 
Or I had fed an Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 



;\< 








THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. THE CARLES OF DYSART. 



TUNE— IF THOU LT PLAY ME FAIR PLAY. 

The boniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, 

Bonie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound and cannons roar, 

Bonie lassie, Lawland lassie, 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonie Lawland lassie. 
Glory, Honour, now invite, 

Bonie lassie, Lawland lassie, 
For Freedom and my King to fight, 

Bonie Lawland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake ; 

Bonie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yoursel procure renown, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
And for your lawful King his crown, 

Bonie Highland laddie ! 

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

TUNE — ' COCK UP YOUR BEAVER.' 

When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown ; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather, — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 

Cock up your beaver, 

And cock it fu' sprush, 
We'll over the border 

And gie them a brush ; 
There's somebody there 

We'll teach better behaviour — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 



TUNE — " HEY, CA THRO . 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 

And the lads o' Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lassies o' Leven. 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 

For we hae mickle ado ; 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mickle ado. 

We hae tales to tell, 

And we hae sangs to sing ; 
We hae pennies to spend, 

And we hae pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behin', 

Let them do the like, 
And spend the gear they win. 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mickle ado ; 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mickle ado. 



MY HOG GIE. 

TUNE — ' WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE DIE.' 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie ! 
My only beast, I had nae mae, 

And vow but I was vogie ! 

The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld, 
Me and my faithfu' doggie ; 

We heard nought but the roaring linn, 
Amang the braes sae scroggie ; 

But the howlet cry'd frae the castle wa', 

The bitter frae the boggie, 
The tod reply'd upon the hill, 

I trembled f<Jr my Hoggie. 

When day did daw, and cocks did craw, 
The morning it was foggie ; 

An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, 
And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. 








294 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

TUNE — ' KELLYBURN BRAES.' 

There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

He met wi' the Devil ; says, ' How do you fen ? ' 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

'I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.' 

' It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave ' 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

' But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,' 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

* O welcome, most kindly,' the blythe carle said 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

' But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.' 

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Syne bad her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e, 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, arid rue is in prime. 




-. 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



A reekit wee Devil looks over the wa' 

( Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

' O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a',' 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

And to her auld husband he's carried her back; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

' I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; ' 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 




THE TAILOR. 



TUNE — THE TAILOR FELL THRO THE BED, THIMBLES AN A . 

The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', 

The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a' ; 

The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma' 

The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. 

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, 
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, 
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 

Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
The day it is short, and the night it is lang, 
The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 



There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's some that are dowie, I trow wad be fain 
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. 







THE WEARY PUND O' TOW. 



THE WEARY PUND O TOW. 



The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As gude as e'er did grow; 
And a' that she has made o' that, 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyond the ingle low, 
And ay she took the tither souk 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 



Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brake it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 

Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 

The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 



WEARY FA ' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY 



TUNE — DUNCAN GRAY. 



Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then I maun sit the lee-lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 

And a' for the girdin o't. 



Bonie was the Lammas moon 
Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 

Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 
Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 



The girdin brak, the beast cam down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 
Wae on the bad girdin o't ! 

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the 
skaith, 

And clout the bad girdin o't. 



WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. 



When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 

And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 
As ye were wae and weary ! 

It was na sae ye glinted by 
When I was wi' my dearie. 





THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



THE HERON BALLADS. 

FIRST BALLAD. 



Whom will you send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Thro' Galloway and a' that; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 



Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 
And has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ; 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, an' a' that. 



Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes an' lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 



But why should we to nobles jouk, 

And is't against the law that ; 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that ; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that ! 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought an' sold 
Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, 
Our representative to be, 
For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blest that saw that. 




THE ELECTLON. 

SECOND BALLAD. 



Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 

For there will be bickerin' there ; 
For Murray's light-horse are to muster, 

And O, how the heroes will swear ! 
An' there will be Murray commander, 

And Gordon the battle to win; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each 
other, 

Sae knit in alliance an' kin. 




An' there will be black-lippit John- 
nie, 

The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; 
An he get na hell for his haddin' 

The Deil gets na justice ava'; 
An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 

We'll e'en let the subject alane. 



298 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the 
head ? 
An' there will be Cardoness, Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the Devil the prey will despise. 



An' there will be Douglasses doughty, 

New christ'ning towns far and near ! 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the — o' a peer ; 
An' there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous 

Whose honour is proof to the storm, 
To save them from stark reproba- 
tion, 

He lent them his name to the firm. 



But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller, 

An 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
An' where is our King's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is gettin' his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 



An' there will be lads o' the gospel, 
Muirhead wha's as gude as he's 
true ; 
An' there will be Buittle's apostle, 
Wha's more o' the black than the 
blue ; 
An' there will be folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note, 
The Deil ane but honours them 
highly, — 
The Deil ane will gie them his vote ! 



be 



dthy young 



An' there will 
Richard, 

Dame Fortune should hing by the 
neck; 
For prodigal, thriftless bestowing — 
His merit had won him respect: 



An' there will be rich brother nabobs, 
Though nabobs, yet men of the first ; 

An' there will be Collieston's whiskers, 
An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst. 



An' there will be stamp-office John- 
nie, 

Tak tent how ye purchase a dram ; 
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 

An' there will be gleg Colonel Tarn ; 
An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were pack'd in a par- 
cel, 

His worth might be sample for a', 



An' can we forget the auld major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys ; 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's gude 
knight ; 
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 



An' there, frae the Niddisdale's bor- 
ders, 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' 
Walie, 

That griens for the fishes an' loaves ; 
An' there will be Logan Mac Dowall, 

Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there, 
An' also the wild Scot o' Galloway, 

Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 



Then hey the chaste interest o' Brough- 
ton, 

An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balmaghie to the Com- 
mons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a King ; 
An' hey for the sanctified Murray, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 
He founder'd his horse among harlots, 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



299 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

THIRD BALLAD. 



Wha will buy my troggin, 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame and high renown, 
For an auld sang — 

It's thought the gudes were stown. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth o' Broughton 

In a needle's ee ; 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald — 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 



Here's its stuff and lining, 

Cardoness' head ; 
Fine for a sodger 

A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 



Here's a little wadset 
Buittles scrap o' truth, 

Pawn'd in a gin-shop 
Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings 
Frae the manse o' Urr ; 

The crest, an auld crab-apple 
Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Redcastle 

Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth and wisdom 
Collieston can boast ; 

By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Murray's fragments 
O' the ten commands ; 

Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman, — 

He'll buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 







JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION. 

TUNE — 'THE KAISES IN THE WOOD.' 



'Twas in the seventeen hunder year 

O' grace and ninety-five, 
That year I was the wae'est man 

O' ony man alive. 



In March the three-and-twentieth morn, 
The sun raise clear and bright ; 

But oh I was a waefu' man 
Ere to-fa' o' the night. 





oo 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land, 

Wi' equal right and fame, 
And thereto was his kinsman joined 

The Murray's noble name. 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land, 
Made me the judge o' strife ; 

But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's 
broke, 
And eke my hangman's knife. 

'Twas by the banks o' bonie Cree, 
Beside Kirkcudbright's towers, 

The Stewart and the Murray there 
Did muster a' their powers. 

The Murray, on the auld gray yaud, 
Wi' winged spurs did ride, 

That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale 
rade, 
He staw upon Nidside. 

An' there had na been the yerl himsel', 
O there had been nae play ; 

But Garlies was to London gane, 
And sae the kye might stray. 

And there was Balmaghie, I ween, 
In front rank he wad shine ; 

But Balmaghie had better been 
Drinking Madeira wine. 

Frae the Glenkens came to our aid, 

A chief o' doughty deed ; 
In case that worth should wanted be, 

O' Kenmure we had need. 



And by our banners marched Muir- 
head, 
And Buittle was na slack ; 
Whase haly priesthood nane can 
stain, 
For wha can dye the black ? 

And there sae grave Squire Cardoness, 
Looked on till a' was done ; 

Sae, in the tower o' Cardoness, 
A howlet sits at noon. 

And there led I the Bushby clan, 

My gamesome billie Will ; 
And my son Maitland, wise as brave, 

My footsteps followed still. 

The Douglas and the Heron's name 
We set nought to their score ; 

The Douglas and the Heron's name 
Had felt our weight before. 

But Douglasses o' weight had we, 

The pair o' lusty lairds, 
For building cot-houses sae famed, 

And christening kail-yards. 

And there Redcastle drew his sword, 
That ne'er was stained wi' gore, 

Save on a wanderer lame and blind, 
To drive him frae his door. 

And last came creeping C 1 n, 

Was mair in fear than wrath ; 

Ae knave was constant in his mind, 
To keep that knave frae scaith. 



YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. 



TUNE — ' THE CARLIN O THE GLEN. 



Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; 
Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, 
And reign'd resistless King of Love : 
But now wi' sighs and starting tears, 
He strays amang the woods and briers ; 
Or in the glens and rocky raves 
His sad complaining dowie raves : 



I wha sae late did range and rove, 
And changed with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near, 
Repentance I should buy sae dear ; 
The slighted maids my torment see, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair ! 




THE SONGS 




YE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 

TUNE — ' SHAWNBOY.' 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who marked each element's border; 
W T ho formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May secresy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre ! 

YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

TUNE — ' YE JACOBITES BY NAME.' 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, 

Your fautes I will proclaim, 

Your doctrines I maun blame — 
You shall hear. 

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law ? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang ? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar, 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life, 
Wi' bluidie war. 

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 

And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 







302 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the swee voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonie castle green : 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee. 




THERE WAS A LASS. 

TUNE — 'DUNCAN DAVISON.' 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that follow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock, 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eased their shanks, 

And ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should be a bride the morn ; 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 

And we will live like King and Queen, 
Sae blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonie lass, 

And ay be welcome back again. 






THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



303 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, 
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and monie a glen, 
At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, 

But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red, &c. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill, 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill : 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. 
I red, &c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red, &c. 



EPPIE M'NAB. 



O SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
She's down in the yard', she's kissin' the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, 
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 




^r x/~%f-sjtylir-^i- 





304 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 




THE COLLIER LADDIE. 

O whare live ye my bonie lass, 
And tell me how they ca' ye ? 

My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow my Collier laddie. 

see ye not yon hills and dales 
The sun shines on sae brawly : 

They a' are mine, and they shall be 
thine, 
If ye'll leave your Collier laddie. 

And ye shall gang in rich attire, 

Weel buskit up fu' gaudy ; 
And ane to wait at every hand, 

If ye'll leave your Collier laddie. 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the earth conceals sae lowly; 

1 would turn my back on you and it a', 

And embrace my Collier laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day, 
And spend it at night fu' brawlie; 

I can mak my bed in the Collier's 
neuk, 
And lie down wi' my Collier laddie. 

Loove for loove is the bargain for me, 
Tho' the wee cot-house should haud 
me; 
And the warld before me to win my 
bread, 
And fare fa' my Collier laddie. 



SONG — AH, CHLORIS. 

TUNE — ' MAJOR GRAHAM.' 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, 
That thou of love wilt hear ; 

If from the lover thou maun flee, 
Yet let the friend be dear. 

Altho' I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell ; 

My passion I will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well : 



Tho' a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart, 
And say it is esteem. 



KATHARINE J AFFRAY. 

There liv'd a lass in yonder dale, 
And down in yonder glen, O 

And Katharine Jaffray was her name, 
Weel known to many men. O 

Out came the lord of Lauderdale 
Out frae the south countrie, O 

All for to court this pretty maid 
Her bridegroom for to be. O 

He's tell'd her father and mother baith, 

As I hear sindry say, O 
But he has na tell'd the lass hersel 

Till on her wedding day. O 

Then came the Laird o' Lochinton 
Out frae the English border, 

All for to court this pretty maid, 
All mounted in good order. 



WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 

Whan I sleep I dream, 

Whan I wauk I'm eerie, 
Sleep I canna get, 

For thinkin' o' my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on the bonie lad 

That has my heart a keeping. 

Ay waukin O, waukin ay and 

wearie, 
Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' 
my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on my bonie lad, 

An' I bleer my een wi' greetin'! 
Ay waukin, &c. 





THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



305 



GUDEEN TO YOU, 
KIMMER. 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye do ? 
Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 

The better that I'm fou. 
We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, 
■ We're a' noddin at our house at hame. 

Kate sits i' the neuk, 

Suppin hen broo ; 
Deil tak Kate 

An' she be na noddin too ! 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye fare ? 
A pint o' the best o't, 

And twa pints mair. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye thrive ; 
How mony bairns hae ye ? 

Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. 
We're a noddin, &c. 

Are they a' Johny's ? 

Eh ! atweel no : 
Twa o' them were gotten 

When Johny was awa. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

Cats like milk, 

And dogs like broo ; 
Lads like lasses weel, 

And lasses lads too. 
We're a noddin, &c. 

THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 

There's news, lasses, news, 

Gude news I've to tell, 
There's a boat fu' o' lads 
Come to our town to sell. 
The wean wants a cradle, 

An' the cradle wants a cod, 
An' I'll no gang to my bed 
Until I get a nod. 



Father, quo' she, Mither, quo' she, 

Do what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed 

Till I get a man. 
The wean, &c. 

I hae as gude a craft rig 
As made o' yird and stane ; 

And waly fu' the ley-crap 
For I maun till'd again. 
The wean, &c. 



THAT I HAD NE'ER 
BEEN MARRIED. 

O that I had ne'er been married, 

1 wad never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

An' they cry crowdie ever mair. 
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, 

Three times crowdie in a day ; 
Gin ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. 

Waefu' want and hunger fley me, 
Glowrin by the hallan en' ; 

Sair I fecht them at the door, 
But ay I'm eerie they come ben. 
Ance crowdie, &c. 

AN' 0/ MY EPPIE. 

An' O ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair. 

An' O ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me, 
Dishonour defile me, 
If e'er I beguile thee 

My Eppie Adair ! 





306 



THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 



Frae the friends and land I love, 

Driven by Fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight. 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care, 
When remembrance wrecks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 



Brightest climes shall mirk appear. 

Desart ilka blooming shore; 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore. 
Till revenge, wi' laurell'd head 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilk loyal, bonie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



SCR OG GAM. 



There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, 

Scroggam ; 
She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen, 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in anither, 



Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, 

Scroggam; 
That the heat o' the tane might cool 

the tither, 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 



THE BONIE LASS OF ALBANY. 



TUNE — MARY S DREAM. 



My heart is wae, and unco wae, 
To think upon the raging sea, 

That roars between her gardens green 
And the bonie Lass of Albany. 

This lovely maid's of royal blood 
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three, 

But oh, alas, for her bonie face, 

They hae wrang'd the Lass of 
Albany. 

In the rolling tide of spreading 

Clyde 

There sits an isle of high degree, 

And a town of fame whose princely 

name 

Should grace the Lass of Albany. 



But there's a youth, a witless youth, 
That fills the place where she should 
be; 

We'll send him o'er to his native shore, 
And bring our ain sweet Albany. 

Alas the day, and wo the day, 
A false usurper wan the gree, 

Who now commands the towers and 
lands — 
The royal right of Albany. 

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, 
On bended knees most ferventlie, 

The time may come, with pipe and 
drum 
We'll welcome hame fair Albany. 









THE SONGS OF BURNS. 



307 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH 



UP AND WAUR THEM A 



The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them as he sair'd the 
king — 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstons hae the guidin' o't, 



The day he stude his country's friend, 
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie, 



Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 
That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's boast ? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye, 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark, here's Whistle- 
birck, 

Lang may his whistle blaw. Jamie ; 
And Maxwell true o' sterling blue, 

And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie. 



SONG. 



MAGGY LAUDER. 



When first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

I couldna tell what ailed me, 
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat, 

My een they almost failed me. 
She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight, 

All grace does round her. hover, 
Ae look deprived me o' my heart, 

And I became a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, 
She's aye so blithe and cheerie ; 

She's aye sae bonie, blithe, and gay, 
O gin I were her dearie ! 

Had I Dundas's whole estate, 

Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in ; 

Did warlike laurels crown rry brow, 
Or humbler bays entwining — 



I'd lay them a' at Jeanie's feet, 
Could I but hope to move her, 

And prouder than a belted knight, 
I'd be my Jeanie's lover. 
She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, &c. 

But sair I fear some happier swain 

Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour : 
If so, may every bliss be hers, 

Though I maun never have her : 
But gang she east, or gang she 
west, 

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
While men have eyes, or ears, or 
taste, 

She'll always find a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, &c. 






v :■; 



I 













APPENDIX. 



The following Elegy, Extempore Verses to Gavin Hamilton and Versicles on Sign- 
posts, now for the first time published, are extracted, it is supposed, from the copy 
of his Commonplace Book which Burns presented to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop. The 
copy, after having been in the hands of several persons, and at each remove denuded 
of certain pages, came into the possession of Mr. Stillie, bookseller, Princes' Street, 
Edinburgh, some years since, and is now the property of Mr. Macmillan. Besides the 
following poems, it contains two stanzas never before published of the Epitaph on 
Robert Eergusson, versions of There was a lad was born in Kyle, and Gordon Castle, 
differing in some respects from those commonly printed ; all of which have been em- 
bodied in the notes to the present edition. In the Commonplace Book, the Elegy is 
thus introduced: — "The following poem is the work of some hapless unknown son 
of the Muses, who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of ' The Voice of 
Cona,' in his solitary mournful notes, and had the sentiments been clothed in Shen- 
stone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet." Burns, 
it will be seen, does not claim the authorship, and, from internal evidence, the Editor 
is of opinion that it was not written by him. Still, the Elegy, so far at least as the 
Editor is aware, exists nowhere else ; and if Burns did not actually compose it, he at 
least thought it worthy of being copied with his own hand into a book devoted almost 
exclusively to his own compositions. Even if it were certain that Burns was not the 
author, still, the knowledge that he admired it, and that through his agency it alone 
exists, is considered sufficient excuse for its admission here. The Exte7npore Verses 
to Gavin Hamilton are as certainly Burns's as is Death and Dr. Hornbook, or the 
Address to the Deil. The dialect, the turn of phrase, the glittering surface of sarcasm, 
with the strong under-current of sense, and the peculiar off-hand impetuosity of idea 
and illustration, unmistakably indicate Burns's hand, and his only. In the Common- 
place Book, no date is given ; but from the terms of the two closing stanzas, it would 
appear that the voyage to Jamaica was in contemplation at the period of its composi- 
tion. The last stanza is almost identical in thought and expression with the closing 
lines of the well-known Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, which was written at that 
time, and which appeared in the first edition of the poems printed at Kilmarnock. 

The Versicles on Signposts have the following introduction: — "The everlasting 
surliness of a Lion, Saracen's head, &c. or the unchanging blandness of the Landlord 
welcoming a traveller, on some sign-posts, would be no bad similes of the constant 
affected fierceness of a Bully, or the eternal simper of a Frenchman or a Fiddler." 
The versicles themselves are of little worth, and are indebted entirely to their paternity 
for their appearance here. 

ELEGY. 



Strait is the spot and green the sod, 
From whence my sorrows flow : 

And soundly rests the ever dear 
Inhabitant below. — 



Pardon my transport, gentle Shade, 
While o'er this turf I bow ! 

Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd, 
And solitary now ! 

3°9 




3io 



APPENDIX. 






Not one poor stone to tell thy name, 
Or make thy virtues known ; 

But what avails to me, to thee, 
The sculpture of a stone ? 

I'll sit me down upon this turf, 

And wipe away this tear : 
The chill blast passes swiftly by, 

And flits around thy bier. — 

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, 
And sad their house of rest : 

Low lies the head by Death's cold 
arm 
In aweful fold embrac'd. — 



I saw the grim Avenger stand 

Incessant by thy side ; 
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath 

Thy lingering frame destroy'd. — 

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, 
And wither'd was thy bloom, 

Till the slow poison brought thy 
youth 
Untimely to the tomb. — 

Thus wasted are the ranks of men, 
Youth, Health, and Beauty fall ; 

The ruthless ruin spreads around, 
And overwhelms us all. — 



Behold where round thy narrow house 
The graves unnumber'd lie ! 

The multitudes that sleep below 
Existed but to die. — 

Some, with the tottering steps of 
Age, 

Trode down the darksome way : 
And some, in youth's lamented prime, 

Like thee, were torn away. — 

Yet these, however hard their fate, 
Their native earth receives ; 

Amid their weeping friends they di'd, 
And fill their fathers' graves. 



From thy lov'd friends where first thy 
breath 

Was taught by Heaven to flow : 
Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke 

Surpris'd and laid thee low. — 

At the last limits of our Isle, 
Wash'd by the western wave, 

Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful 
bard 
Sits lonely on thy grave.— 

Pensive he eyes, before him spread, 
The deep outstretch'd and vast ; 

His mourning notes are borne away 
Along the rapid blast. — 

And while, amid the silent Dead, 
Thy hapless fate he mourns ; 

His own long sorrows freshly bleed, 
And all his grief returns. — 

Like thee cut off in early youth 
And flower of beauty's pride, 

His friend, his first and only joy, 
His much lov'd Stella di'd. — 



Him too, the stern impulse of Fate 

Resistless bears along ; 
And the same rapid tide shall whelm 

The Poet and the Song. — 

The tear of pity which he shed, 

He asks not to receive ; 
Let but his poor remains be laid 

Obscurely in the grave. — 

His grief -worn heart, with truest 

j°y> 

Shall meet the welcome shock; 
His airy harp shall lie unstrung 
And silent on the rock. — 

O my dear maid, my Stella, when 
Shall this sick period close; 

And lead thy solitary Bard, 
To his belov'd repose ? 




APPENDIX. 



311 



EXTEMPORE. TO 
MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. 

To you, Sir, this summons I've sent, 
Pray whip till the pownie is fraething ; 

But if you demand what I want, 
I honestly answer you, naething. 

Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me, 
For idly just living and breathing, 

While people of every degree 

Are busy employed about — naething. 

Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, 
And grumble his hurdies their 
claithing ; 
He'll find, when the balance is cast, 
He's gane to the devil for — 
naething. 

The courtier cringes and bows, 

Ambition has likewise its plaything; 

A coronet beams on his brows : 

And what is a coronet ? — naething. 

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown, 
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing, 

But every good fellow will own 

Their quarrel is all about — 
naething. 

The lover may sparkle and glow, 
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing : 

But marriage will soon let him know 
He's gotten a buskit up naething. 

The Poet may jingle and rhyme 
In hopes of a laureate wreathing, 

And when he has wasted his time 
He's kindly rewarded with naething. 

The thundering bully may rage, 

And swagger and swear like a 
heathen ; 
But collar him fast, I'll engage, 

You'll find that his courage is 
naething. 

Last night with a feminine whig, 
A Poet she could na put faith in, 

But soon we grew lovingly big, 

I taught her, her terrors were 
naething. 



Her whigship was wonderful pleased, 
But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing; 

Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, 

And kissed her and promised her — 
naething. 

The priest anathemas may threat, — 
Predicament, Sir, that we're baith in ; 

But when honour's reveille is beat, 
The holy artillery's naething. 

And now, I must mount on the wave : 
My voyage perhaps there is death in, 

But what of a watery grave ? 
The drowning a Poet is naething. 

And now, as grim death's in my 
thought, 
To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing : 
My service as long as ye've aught, 
And my friendship, by G — , when 
ye've naething. 

VERSICLES ON SIGN- 
POSTS. 

He looked 
Just as your Sign-post lions do, 
As fierce, and quite as harmless too. 

PATIENT STUPIDITY. 

So heavy, passive to the tempests' 

shocks, 
Strong on the Sign-post stands the 

stupid Ox. 

His face with smile eternal drest, 
Just like the Landlord to his guest, 
High as they hang with creaking din, 
To index out the Country Inn. 






A head, pure, sinless quite of brain 

and soul, 
The very image of a Barber's Poll ; 
It shows a human face and wears a wig, 
And looks, when well preserved, 

amazing big. 





NOTES. 



Page I, line I. The tale of the ' Twa Dogs,' 
Gilbert Burns writes, ' was composed after 
the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. 
Robert had a dog which he called Luath, that 
was a great favourite. The dog had been killed 
by the wanton cruelty of some person the night 
before my father's death. Robert said to me, 
that he should like to confer such immortality 
as he could bestow, on his old friend Luath; 
and that he had a great mind to introduce some- 
thing into the book, under the title of Stanzas 
to the Memory of a Quadruped Friend: but this 
plan was given up for the poem as it now stands. 
Caesar was merely the creature of the poet's 
imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luath.' 

Page I, line 2b. Luath, Cuchullin's dog in 
Ossian's Fingal. R. B. 

Page 2, line 7. Var. 

Till tired at last wi' many a farce, 
They sat them down upon their a — . 

Till tired at last, an' doucer grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down. 

Page 3, line 14. Burns alludes to the factor 
in the autobiographical sketch communicated to 
Dr. John Moore. 

' My father's generous master died: the farm 
proved a ruinous bargain : and, to clench the mis- 
fortune, we fell into the hands of a factor who sat 
for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of 
the" Twa Dogs." . . • My indignation yet boils 
al the recollection of the scoundrel factor's inso- 
lent threatening letters, which used to set us all 
in tears.' 

Page 8, line 8. In the first edition the stanza 
closed as follows : — 

Wae worth them for't ! 

While healths gae round to him, wha tight, 
Gies famous sport. 

Page q, line 23. This was wrote before the 
Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of Session, 
1786; for which Scotland and the author return 
their most grateful thanks. R. B. 

Page 11, line 1. The allusion in the text is 
primarily to Hugh Montgomerie of Coilsfield, 
twelfth Earl of Eglintoune. 

Page 11, line 2. James Boswell of Auchin- 
leck, Johnson's biographer. 

312 



Page 11, line 17. George Dempster, Esq. of 
Dunnichen. 

Page 11, line 18. Sir Adam Fergusson of 
Kilkerran, Bart. 

Page 11, line 20. The Marquis of Graham, 
eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. 

Page 11, line 22. The Right Hon. Henry 
Dundas, Treasurer of the Navy, and M. P. for 
the city of Edinburgh. 

Page 11, line 24. Lord Frederick Campbell, 
second brother of the Duke of Argyle, and Hay 
Campbell, Lord Advocate of Scotland. 

Page 11, line 28. After this line the follow- 
ing stanza occurs in Burns' MS. — in allusion, 
it is understood, to the imperfect elocution of 
Colonel Montgomerie of Coilsfield. 

See, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, 

If bardies e'er are represented, 

I ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend a hand; 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 
Page 12, line 17. The Earl of Chatham, 
Pitt's father, was the second son of Robert 
Pitt of Boconnock, in the county of Corn- 
wall. 

Page 12, line iq. A worthy old hostess of 
the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes 
studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch 
drink. R. B. Nanse was surprised at her 
house and name being thus dragged before the 
public. She declared that Burns had never 
taken three half-mutchkins in her house in all 
his life. 

Page 14, line 1. Holy Fair is a common 
phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental 
occasion. R. B. 

Page 14, line 1. Var. 
'Twas on a simmer Sunday morn. MS. 
Page 14, line q. Var. 

Fu' braw that day. MS. 
Page 14, line 21. Var. 
Their faces withered, lang and thin. MS. 
Page 14, line 28. Var. 

Wi' bonnet aff, cothie, sweet lass. MS. 
Page 14, line 34. Var. 
Ye, for my sake, hae broke the feck. MS. 
Page 14, line 36. Var. 

By night or day. MS. 




NOTES. 



313 



1st Edit. 
MS. 



MS. 






Page 15, line 10. Var. 

Quothie, I'll get my tither coat, 
An' on my Sunday's sark, 
An' meet ye in the yard without, 
At op'nin o' the wark. MS. 
Page is, line 30. Var. 

A greedy glowr the Elder throws! MS. 
Page is, line 3Q. Var. 

Bet B — r there, an' twa-three whores. 
Racer Jess was a half-witted daughter of 
Poosie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian, 
and died at Mauchline in 1813. 
Page is, line 40. Var. 

Sit blinking in the entry. 
Page is, line 43. Var. 

An' there, a batch o' wabster brawds. 
Page lb, line 2. Var. 

An' ithers on their claes. 
Page lb, lines- Var. 
On this side sits an elect swatch 
A goodly swatch. 
Page lb, line b. Var. 

Wi' mercy beggin' faces. 
Page lb, line 7. Var. 

On that, a set o' chaps, on watch. MS. 
Page lb, line 12. Var. 

Wha's ain dear lass, that he loves best. MS. 
Page lb, line iq. Var. 

But now the congregation o'er. MS. 
Page ib, line 20. Var. 

Is hush't in expectation. MS. 
Page lb, line 21. Var. 

For Savvnie climbs the holy door. MS. 
Mr. Moodie, minister at Riccarton. 
Page lb, line 22. Var. 

Wi' tidings o' salvation. 
The change in the text was made at the sug- 
gestion of Dr. Blair. 

Page lb, line 2S- Var. 

The vera sight o' Sawnie's face. 
Page lb, line 2b. Var. 

Tae Hell wi' speed had sent him. 
Page lb, line 41. Var. 

Geordie begins his cauld harangues. 
The Rev. George Smith, minister at Galston. 
Page ib, line 42. Var. 

On practice and of morals. 
Page 17, line I. Var. 

Its no' nae Gospel truth divine, 
Tae cant o' sense an' reason. MS. 
Page 17, line b. Var. 

Or some auld wicket Heathen. MS. 
Page 17, line 12. Var. 

For sairy Willy water-fit. 
The Rev. William Peebles, minister of New- 
ton-upon-Ayr. 

Page 17, line 17. A street so called, which 
faces the tent in Mauchline. R. B. 

Page 17, line iq. The Rev. W. Miller, assist- 
ant preacher at Auchinleck, and afterwards 
minister of Kilmaurs, near Kilmarnock. He 
was of short stature. 
Page 18, line 2. Var. 

Their lowan drowth tae quench. MS. 



Page 18, line 4. Var. 

An' steer about the punch. MS. 

Page 18 , line 13. Var. 

Black Jock is na spairin. 

The Rev. John Russel, minister of the Chapel 
of Ease, Kilmarnock. 

Page 18, line 14. Var. 
His piercing words like twa-edg't swords. 

Page 18, line 17. Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
R. B. 

Page 18, line 32. Var. 

How yill gaed round in jugs an' caups. 

Page 18, line 37. Var. 

Then comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. 

Page iq, line 10. Var. 

Then Robin Gib wi' weary jow, 
Begins tae clink an' croon. MS. 

Page iq, line 28. The composition of ' Death 
and Doctor Hornbook' was suggested by the 
circumstances related in the Preface. It was 
composed rapidly. Burns met the apothecary 
at a meeting of the Torbolton Masonic lodge, 
and the next afternoon he repeated the entire 
poem to Gilbert. With reference to its compo- 
sition, Mr. Allan Cunningham supplies the fol- 
lowing tradition, which is nonsense on the face 
of it. 

' On his way home,' — from the Masonic meet- 
ing — 'the Poet found a neighbour lying tipsy 
by the road-side ; the idea of Death flashed on 
his fancy, and seating himself on the parapet of 
a bridge, he composed the poem, fell asleep, and 
when awakened by the morning sun, he recol- 
lected it all, and wrote it down on reaching 
Mossgiel.' 

The laughter occasioned by the publication of 
the satire drove, it is said, John Wilson, school- 
master and apothecary, out of the county. He 
ultimately settled in Glasgow, became Session 
Clerk of the Gorbals, and died in 1839. ' Death 
and Doctor Hornbook,' first appeared in the 
Edinburgh edition of the Poems. 

Page iq, line 32. Var.^ 

A rousing whid at times to vend. 

Page iq, line 37. Mr. Robert Wright, in his 
Life of Major-General James Wolfe, states that 
' Hell ' was the name given to the arched pas- 
sage in Dublin which led into the area on the 
south side of Christ Church, and east of the law. 
courts. A representation of the Devil, carved 
in oak, stood above the entrance. 

Page 20, line 32. This rencounter happened 
in seed-time, 1785. R. B. 

Page 21, line q. An epidemical fever was 
then raging in that country. R. B. 

Page 21, line 21. This gentleman, Dr. Horn- 
book is, professionally, a brother of the Sove- 
reign Order of the Ferula, but by intuition and 
inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, 
and physician. R. B. 

Page 21, line 25. Buchan's Domestic Medi- 
cine. R. B. 

Page 22, line 33. The grave-digger. R. B. 

Page 24, line 1. The occasion of this poem 



314 



NOTES. 






was the erection of a new bridge across the 
river at Ayr, to supersede the inconvenient 
structure built in the reign of Alexander III. 
Mr. Ballantyne, Burns' patron, and chief magis- 
trate of the town, was mainly instrumental in 
raising funds for the work, and to him the poem 
is dedicated. 

Page 24, line 21. Var. 
Where Ballantyne befriends the humble name. 
MS. 

Page 24, line 30. Var. 
Unnumbered buds and flowerets nect'rine spoils. 
MS. 

Page 2J, line 11. A noted tavern at the 
Auld Brig end. R. B. 

Page 23, line 13. Var. In the MS. copy 
these lines are inserted: 

Or penitential pangs for former sins, 

Led him to rove by quondam Merran Din's. 

Page 25, line 15. Var. 
He wandered forth he knew not when nor why. 

Page 23, line lb. Var. 
The drowsy steeple clock had numbered two. 

The two steeples. R. B. The ' Dungeon 
Clock' in this, and the ' Wallace Tow'r ' in the 
following line. 

Page 25, line 24. Var. 
When lo ! before our Bardie's wond'ring e'en, 
The Brigs of Ayr's twa sprites are seen. 

Page 23, line 27. The Gos-hawk or Falcon. 
R. B. 

Page 2b, lines q, 10. This couplet — the 
most picturesque and memorable in the poem 
— does not occur in the MS. copy. 

Page 2b, line 13. A noted ford, just above 
the Auld Brig. R. B. 

Page 2b, line 27. Var. 
Or where the Greenock winds its moorland 
course. 

Page 2b, line 28. Var. 

Or haunted Garpal draws its feeble source. 

The banks of Garpal water is one of the few 
places in the west of Scotland where those fancy- 
scaring beings known by the name of Ghaists, 
still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. R. B. 

Page 2b, line 2q. Var. 
Aroused by blust'ring winds an spotted thowes. 

Page 2b, line 33. ' Glenbuck,' the source of 
the river Ayr. R. B. 

Page 2b, line 33. ' Ratton-Key,' a small 
landing-place above the large key. R. B. 

Page 27, line 31. This, and the following line, 
does not occur in the MS. copy. 

Page 27, li7ie 38. Var. 
The herryment and ruin o' their country. 

Page 27, line 42. The following couplet 
occurs in the MS. copy: 
That's ay a string auld doyted gray-beards harp 

on, 
A topic for their peevishness to carp on. 

Page 28, line 3. Var. 
To liken them to your auld warld bodies. 

Page 28, line 4. Var. 
I must needs say comparisons are odious. 



Page 28, line 7. In the MS. copy the follow- 
ing lines occur : 
Nae mair down street the Council Quorum 

waddles, 
With wigs like mainsails on their logger noddles, 
No difference but bulkiest or tallest, 
With comfortable Dulness in for ballast. 
Nor shoals nor currents need a Pilot's caution, 
For regularly slow, they only witness motion. 

Page 28, line 14. Var. 
Plain kind stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 
Page 28, line 25. A well-known performer 
of Scottish music on the violin. R. B. 

Page 28, line 28. Var. 
Or when they touched Old Scotia's melting airs. 
Page 28, line 44. Var. 
All-cheering plenty with his flowing horn. 
Page 28, line 4Q. A stream near Coilsfield. 
Page 2Q, line 2. Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 
Page 2Q, line 4. 

The seat of Professor Dugald Stewart. 
Page 20, col. 1, line 1. ' The Ordination ' 
was composed on the Rev. Mr. Mackinlay being 
called to Kilmarnock. It was first printed in 
the second edition of the Poems. 

Page 2q, col. 1, line 11. Alluding to a scoffing 
ballad which was made on the admission of the 
late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the 
Laigh Kirk. R. B. 

Page 2Q, col. 1, line 28. Var. 

Come wale a text, a proper verse. MS. 
Page 20, col. 1, line 30. Var. 

How Ham leugh at his father's a— e. 
Gen. ix. 22. R. B. 
Page 20, col. 2, line 1. Var. 

Or Phineas did four buttocks pierce. 
Num. xxv. 8. R. B. 
Page 20, col. 2, line 3. Var. 

Or Zipporah wi' scaulding haerse. 
Exod. iv. 25. R. B. 
Page 20, col. 2, line 7. Var. 
Formula and confession : 
An' lay your hands upon his head, 
An' seal his high commission, 
The Holy flock to tent an' feed. 
Page 30, col. 2, line 17. Var. 

Morality's delusive joys. MS. 
Page 30, col. 2, line 20. 

Will clap him in the torture. 
Page 30, col. 2, line 2b. ' New Light ' is a 
cant phrase, in the west of Scotland for those 
religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich 
has so strenuously defended. R. B. 

Page 30, col. 1, line 32. With reference to 
this piece, Burns wrote to a correspondent, 
' Warm recollection of an absent friend presses 
so hard upon my heart, that I send him the pre- 
fixed bagatelle, pleased with the thought that it 
will greet the man of my bosom and be a kind 
of distant language of friendship. ... It was 
merely an extemporaneous production on a 
wager with Mr. Hamilton, that I would not 
produce a poem on the subject in a given time.' 
The Rev. Mr. Steven was afterwards minister 




NOTES. 



315 



of one of the Scotch churches in London — 
where, in 1790, William Burns, the poet's 
brother, heard him preach — and he finally set- 
tled in Kilwinning in Ayrshire. 

Page 31, col. 1, line q. Gilbert Burns says, 
' It was, I think, in the winter of 1784, as we 
were going together with carts for coal to the 
family fire (and I could yet point out the par- 
ticular spot), that the author first repeated to 
me the " Address to the Deil." The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him 
by turning over in his mind the many ludicrous 
accounts and representations we have from vari- 
ous quarters of this august personage.' 

Page 32, col. I, line 37. This stanza was 
originally as follows: — 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 

When strappin' Adam's days were green, 

And Eve was like my bonie Jean, 
My dearest part, 

A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean 
Wi' guileless heart. 

Page 32, col. 2, line 25. Vide Milton, Book 

Page 33, col. 1, line 1. This was one of 
Burns' earliest poems, the first indication of 
that peculiar moral humour of which the ' Twa 
Dogs ' is the finest example. It was written 
before 1784, and Gilbert Burns informed Dr. 
Currie that ' the circumstances of the poor sheep 
were pretty much as he has described them: he 
had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and 
two lambs from a neighbour, and she was teth- 
ered in a field adjoining the house at Lochlea. 
He and I were going out with our teams, and 
our two younger brothers to drive for us at 
mid-day, when Hugh Wilson, a curious-looking, 
awkward lad, clad in plaiding, came to us with 
much anxiety in his face, with the information 
that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, 
and was lying in the ditch. Robert was much 
tickled with Hughoc's appearance and postures 
on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, 
and when we returned from the plough in the 
evening he repeated to me her " Death and 
Dying Words " pretty much in the way they now 
stand.' 

Page 33, col. 1, line 6. A neibor herd callan. 
R. B. ' In a copy of this poem in the poet's 
handwriting, possessed by Miss Grace Aiken, 
Ayr, a more descriptive note is here given. 
" Hughoc was an odd, glowran, gapin' callan, 
about three-fourths as wise as other folk.'" 
Chambers. 

Page 34, col. 2, line 7. This stanza was 
originally written: — 

She was nae get o' runted rams 

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams; 

She was the flower o' Fairhe lambs, 
A famous breed: 

Now Robin, greetin', chows the hams 
O' Mailie dead. 
Page 34, col., 1 line 25. Mr. James Smith 
was, when this epistle was written, a shopkeeper 



in Mauchline. He afterwards removed to Avon 
near Linlithgow, where he established a calico- 
printing manufactory. Being unsuccessful in 
his speculations, he emigrated to the West 
Indies, where he died. 

Page 3b, col. 1, line 37. George Dempster, 
Esq., of Dunnichen. 

Page 37, col. I, line 1. Certain of Burns' 
friends — Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart of 
Stair — considered the ' Dream ' to contain peril- 
ous stuff. These ladies, it is said, vainly solicited 
the poet to omit it in the second edition of his 
poems. The ' Dream,' if not a high, is a very 
characteristic effort : there never was an easier 
hand-gallop of verse. 

Page 3J, col. 1, line 32. An allusion to the 
loss of the North American colonies. 

Page 37, col. 2, line 25. ' On the supplies for 
the Navy being voted, Spring, 1786, Captain 
Macbride counselled some changes in that force, 
particularly the giving up of sixty-four gun 
ships, which occasioned a good deal of dis- 
cussion.' Chambers. 

Page 38, col. 1, line 17. Charles James Fox. 

Page 38, col. 1, line 28. Frederick, Bishop 
of Osnaburg, afterwards Duke of York. 

Page 38, col. 2, line 6. William, afterwards 
Duke of Clarence, and King William IV. 

Page 38, col. 2, line 8. Alluding to the news- 
paper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. 
R. B. 

Page 38, line 7 fr. bottom. Duan, a term 
of Ossian's for the different divisions of a 
digressive poem. See his ' Cath-Loda,' vol. ii. 
of McPherson's translation. R. B. 

Page 3Q, col. 2, li7ie 13. This line supplies a 
curious instance of the fluctuations of Burns' 
mind and passion. It was originally written as 
it stands in the text, but in the bitter feeling in- 
duced by the destruction of the marriage lines 
he had given to Jean Armour, he transferred the 
compliment to the reigning favourite of the 
hour. In the first edition the line stood 
And such a leg! my Bess, I ween! 
In the Edinburgh edition, the old affection being 
in the ascendant again, the line was restored 
to its original shape. 

Page 40, col 1, line 8. The Wallaces. R. B. 

Page 40, col. 1, line 13. William Wallace. 
R. B. 

Page 40, col. 1, line 14. Adam Wallace of 
Richardton, cousin of the immortal preserver 
of Scottish independence. R. B. 

Page 40, col. 1, line 15. Wallace, Laird of 
Craigie, who was second in command, under 
Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle 
on the banks of the Sark, fought anno 1448. 
That glorious victory was principally owing to 
the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the 
gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds 
after the action. R. B. 

Page 40, col. 1, line iq. Coilus, King of the 
Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said 
to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, 








liMiw 





\r v ^^^ 



NOTES. 




near the family seat of the Montgomeries of 
Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown. 
R. B. 

Page 40, col. 2, line I. This and the six fol- 
lowing stanzas appeared for the first time in the 
second edition. 

Page 40, col. 2, line j. Barskimming, the 
seat of the Lord Justice Clerk. R. B. (Sir 
Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President 
of the Court of Session.) 

Page 40, col. 2, line 11. Catrine, the seat of 
the late Doctor, and present Professor Stewart. 
R. B. 

Page 40, col. 2, line 17. Colonel Fullarton. 
R. B. 

Page 42, col. 2, line 16. In the appendix to 
the second volume of Mr. Robert Chambers' 
1 Life and Works of Burns,' are printed the fol- 
lowing additional stanzas of the ' Vision,' taken 
from a MS. in the possession of Mr. Dick, 
bookseller, Ayr. After the 18th stanza of 
printed copies. 

With secret throes I marked that earth, 
That cottage, witness of my birth; 
And near I saw, bold issuing forth, 

In youthful pride, 
A Lindsay, race of noble worth, 

Famed far and wide. 

Where, hid behind a spreading wood, 
An ancient Pict-built mansion stood, 
I spied, among an angel brood, 

A female pair; 
Sweet shone their high maternal blood 

And father's air. 

An ancient tower to memory brought, 
How Dettingen's bold hero fought; 
Still far from sinking into nought, 

It owns a lord 
Who ' far in western ' climates fought 

With trusty sword. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade 
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid, 
I saw a martial race portrayed 

In colours strong: 
Bold, sodger-featured, undismayed 

They stalked along. 

Among the rest I well could spy 
One gallant, graceful, martial boy, 
The sodger sparkled in his eye, 

A diamond water; 
I blest that noble badge with joy 

That owned me frater. 1 

After the 20th stanza, 

Near by arose a mansion fine. 
The seat of many a muse divine ; 



1 Captain James Montgomery, Master of St. 
James' Lodge, Torbolton, to which the author 
has the honour to belong. R. B. 



Not rustic muses such as mine, 

With holly crowned : 
But th' ancient, tuneful, laurelled nine 

From classic ground. 

I mourned the card that fortune dealt, 
To see where bonie Whitefoords dwelt ; 
But other prospects made me melt, 

That village near; 
There nature, friendship, love, I felt, 

Fond — mingling dear. 

Hail! nature's pang, more strong than death! 
Warm friendship's glow, like kindling wrath ! 
Love, dearer than the parting breath 

Of dying friend ! 
Not even with life's wild devious path 

Your force shall end. 

The power that gave the soft alarms 
In blooming Whitefoords' rosy charms, 
Still threats the tiny-feathered arms, 

The barbed dart, 
While lovely Wilhelmina charms 

The coldest heart. 

After the 21st. 

Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid, 
Where lately Want was idly laid, 
I marked busy, bustling Trade 

In fervid flame. 
Beneath a patroness's air 

Of noble name. 

While countless hills I could survey, 
And countless flocks as well as they ; 
But other scenes did charms display 

That better please, 
Where polished manners dwelt with Gray 

In rural ease. 

Where Cessnock flows with gurgling sound, 
And Irwine marking out the bound, 
Enamoured of the scenes around, 

Slow runs his race, 
A name I doubly-honoured found 

With nightly grace. 

Brydone's brave ward I saw him stand, 
Fame humbly offering her hand, 
And near his kinsman's rustic band 

With one accord 
Lamenting their late blessed land 

Must change its lord. 

The owner of a pleasant spot 
Near sandy wilds I did him note : 
A heart too warm, a pulse too hot, 

At times o'erran, 
But large in every feature wrote, 

Appeared the man. 



Si 







NOTES. 



317 



Page 42, col. 1, line ij. This poem was first 
printed in the second edition of Burns' works. 

Page 43, col. 1, line 21. When this worthy 
old sportsman went out last muir-fowl season, 
he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, 
' the last of his fields/ and expressed an ardent 
desire to die and be buried in the muirs. On 
this hint the author composed his Elegy and 
Epitaph. R. B. 

Page 43, col. 1, line 22. A certain preacher, 
a great favourite with the million. Vide the 
' Ordination,' stanza ii. R. B. 

Page 43, col. J, line 23. Another preacher, 
an equal favourite with the few, who was at that 
time ailing. For him, see also the ' Ordination,' 
stanza ix. R. B. 

Page 44, col. 2, line 7. This stanza does not 
appear in the Edinburgh edition. 

Page 44, col. 2, line 30. Killie is a phrase 
the country-folk sometimes use for the name of 
a certain town in the west (Kilmarnock). R. B. 

Page 4Q, col. 1, line 5. The scene of the 
' Jolly Beggars ' was the Change house of Poosie 
Nansie's in Mauchline, a favourite haunt of 
all kinds of vagrants. It is said that Burns 
witnessed the circumstances which gave rise 
to the poem in company with his friend James 
Smith. Although the most dramatic of all 
Burns' performances, it was not a favourite 
with his mother and brother, and he never 
seems to have thought it worthy of publication. 
Mr. George Thomson had heard of its existence, 
and in 1793 wrote the poet on the subject. 
Burns replied, ' I have forgot the cantata you 
allude to, as I kept no copy, and, indeed, did 
not know of its existence; however, I remem- 
ber that none of the songs pleased myself ex- 
cept the last, something about 

' Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest.' 
It was first published in Glasgow in 1801. 

Page 4Q, line q fr. bottom. The heights of 
Abraham, where Wolfe gloriously fell. 

Page 4Q, line 7 fr. bottom. ' El Morro, the 
castle which defends the entrance to the harbour 
of Santiago, or St. Jago, a small island near the 
southern shore of Cuba. It is situated on an 
eminence, the abutments being cut out of the 
limestone rock. Logan's Notes of a Tour, &c. 
Edinburgh, 1838. In 1762 this castle was 
stormed and taken by the British, after which 
the Havana was surrendered, with spoil to the 
value of three millions.' Chambers. 

Page 4Q, line jfr. bottom. Captain Curtis, 
who destroyed the Spanish floating batteries 
during the siege of Gibraltar. 

Page 4Q, line 3fr. bottom. The defender of 
Gibraltar, George Augustus Elliot, created Lord 
Heathfield for his services. 

Page 54i line bfr. bottom. ' A winter Night ' 
was first printed in the second edition of the 
Poems. 

Page 58, col. 1, line 23. Gilbert Burns states 
that the ' Verses to the Mouse ' were composed 



while the author was holding the plough. Mr. 
Chambers relates a pleasant circumstance in 
relation to the event, and the poem to which it 
gave rise. 'John Blane, who had acted as 
gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years 
afterwards, had a distinct recollection of the 
turning up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless 
youth as he was, he ran after the creature to 
kill it, but was checked and recalled by his 
master, who he observed became thereafter 
thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated 
his servants with the familiarity of fellow-labour- 
ers, soon after read the poem to Blane.' The 
gaudsman's rush after the terrified creature may 
have suggested the lines : — 

' I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
Wi' murd'ring pattle.' 

Page jq, col. 1, line 13. Davie was David 
Sillar, a member of the Torbolton Club, and 
author of a volume of poems printed at Kil- 
marnock in 1789. Gilbert Burns states that 
the ' Epistle ' was amongst the earliest of his 
brother's poems. ' It was,' he adds, ' I think, 
in summer, 1784, when, in the interval of harder 
labour, he and I were weeding in the garden 
(kailyard) that he repeated to me the principal 
part of the epistle. I believe the first idea of 
Robert's becoming an author was started on this 
occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, 
and said to him I was of opinion it would bear 
being printed, and that it would be well received 
by people of taste ; that I thought it at least 
equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's 
epistles; and. that the merit of these, and much 
other Scottish poetry, seemed to consist in the 
knack of the expression ; but here there was a 
stream of interesting sentiment, and the Scotti- 
cism of the language scarcely seemed affected, 
but appeared to be the natural language of the 
poet; that, besides, there was certainly some 
novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations 
that were in store for him when he should go 
a-begging. Robert seemed very well pleased 
with my criticism, and we talked of sending it 
to some magazine : but as the plan afforded no 
opportunity of how it would take, the idea was 
dropped.' 

Page SQ, col. I, line 37. Ramsay. R. B. 

Page 61, col. 1, line 1. With reference to 
the poem Gilbert Burns writes, ' It is scarcely 
necessary to mention that the " Lament " was 
composed on that unfortunate passage of his 
matrimonial history which I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distrac- 
tion of his feelings had a little subsided.' 

Page b2, line q. Gilbert Burns, in writing 
of the ' Cotter's Saturday Night,' says, ' Robert 
had frequently remarked to me, that he thought 
there was something peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, " Let us worship God,", used by a de- 
cent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the 
world is indebted for the " Cotter's Saturday 
Night." The hint of the plan and title of the 



3i8 



NOTES. 




poem were taken from Fergusson's " Farmer's 
Ingle." When Robert had not some pleasure 
in view in which I was not thought fit to parti- 
cipate, we used frequently to walk together, 
when the weather was favourable, on the Sun- 
day afternoons (those precious breathing times 
to the labouring part of the community), and 
enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret 
to see their number abridged. It was in one 
of these walks that I first had the pleasure of 
hearing the author repeat the " Cotter's Satur- 
day Night." I do not recollect to have read or 
heard any thing by which I was more highly 
electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and 
the eighteenth, thrilled with a peculiar ecstasy 
through my soul.' 

Page 62, line 2 fr. bottom. Var. 
Does a' his weary carking care beguile. 

Page 66, line 4. Pope's ' Windsor Forest.' 
R. B. 

Page 66, line 20. Var. 1st and 2d edition. 
That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' 
heart. 

Page67, C <>1. 1, line 21. Burns copied 'Winter, 
a Dirge,' into his Commonplace Book in April, 
1784, and prefaced it with the following reflec- 
tions, ' As I am what the men of the world, if 
they knew such a man, would call a whimsical 
mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and 
enjoyment which are in a manner peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such out-of-the- 
way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I 
take in the season of winter, more than the rest 
of the year. This, I believe, may be partly 
owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a mel- 
ancholy cast ; but there is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep stretched on the buried earth," 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble. There 
is scarcely any earthly object which gives me 
more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure 
— but something that exalts me, something that 
enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered 
side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy 
winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees, and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season for devotion; my mind is wrapt 
up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the 
pompous language of the Hebrew bard, " walks 
on the wings of the wind." In one of these 
seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I com- 
posed the following.' 

Page 67, col. 1, line 2q. Dr. Young. R. B. 

Page 6S, col. 1, line 1. Gilbert Burns writes, 
' Several of the poems were produced for the 
purpose of bringing forward some favourite sen- 
timent of the author, He used to remark to me 
that he could not well conceive a more mortify- 
ing picture of human life than a man seeking 
work. In casting about in his mind how this 
sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy 
' Man was made to Mourn ' was composed. 



Page 6q, col. 1, line q. Burns when medi- 
tating emigrating to the West Indies was in 
gloomy mood enough, and in this ode, although 
in it he mc»cks at fortune, there are not wanting 
touches of bitterness, which are all the more 
effective from the prevalent lightness and gayety 
by which they are surrounded. 

Page 6q, col. 1, li?ie 13. Var. 

Our billie, Rob, has ta'en a jink. 

Page 6o, col. 1, line iq. Var. 

He's canter't to anither shore. 

Page 6q, col. 1, line 22. Var. 
An' pray kind Fortune to redress him. 

Page bq, col. 1, line 35. Var. 

"Twill gar her poor, auld heart, I fear. 

Page 6q, col. 2, line 16. Var. 

An' scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock. 

Page 6q, col. 2, line 33. Var. 

Then fare-you-weel, my rhymin billie ! 

Page 70, col. 1, line 1. In Burns' memoranda 
the following passage is prefixed to the prayer: 
' A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarm- 
ing symptoms of pleurisy, or some other danger- 
ous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, 
first put nature on the alarm.' 

Page 70, line 14 fr. bottom. Var. 
Again by passion would be led astray. 

Page 70, line 8/r. bottom. Var. 
If one so black with crimes dare call on Thee. 

Page 70, line 4 fr. bottom. Var. 
Those rapid headlong passions to confine. 

Page 70, line 3 fr. bottom. Var. 
For all unfit my native powers be. 

Page 71, col. 1, line 1. ' The first time,' says 
Gilbert Burns, ' Robert heard the spinnet played 
upon was at the house of Dr. Laurie, then min- 
ister of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
having given up the parish in favour of his son. 
Dr. Laurie has several daughters : one of them 
played ; the father and mother led down the 
dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the 
poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was 
a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately 
introduced to the world. His mind was roused 
to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were 
left in the room where he slept.' Mr. Chambers 
states that the morning after the dance Burns 
did not make his appearance at the breakfast 
table at the usual hour. Dr. Laurie's son went 
to inquire for him, and met him on the stair. 
The young man asked Burns if he had slept 
well. ' Not well,' was the reply, ' the fact is. I 
have been praying half the night. If you go up 
to my room you will find my prayer on the 
table.' 

Page 72, col. 1, line I. In Burns' memo- 
randa the poem appears with the following 
sentences prefixed : ' There was a certain period 
of my life that my spirit was broke by repeated 
losses and disasters, which threatened and in- 
deed effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My 
body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful 
disorder, a hypochondria or confirmed melan- 
choly. In this wretched state, the recollection 









NOTES. 



319 



of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my 
harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid 
intervals, in one of which I composed the 
following.' 

Page 73, col. 1, line 1. This poem was 
addressed to Andrew Aitken, son of the poet's 
patron Robert Aitken, to whom the ' Cotter's 
\ Saturday Night ' was dedicated. Mr. Chambers 
states that Mr. Niven of Kilbride always al- 
leged that the epistle was originally addressed 
to him. 

Page 73, col. 2, line 8. After this line, in a 
copy of the poem in Burns' handwriting, the 
following stanza occurs: — 

If ye hae made a step aside, 

Some hap mistake o'erta'en you, 
Yet still keep up a decent pride, 

And ne'er o'er far demean you. 
Time comes wi' kind oblivious shade 

And daily darker sets it, 
And if nae mair mistakes are made 
The world soon forgets it. 
Page 75, col. 1, line 1. This poem did not 
appear in the first edition. 

Page 7J, col. 2, line iq. In the ' Caledonian 
Mercury ' of date 20th December, 1786, in which 
the ' Haggis ' was printed apparently for the 
first time, the concluding stanza appears as 
follows: — 

Ye Pow'rs wha gie us a' that's gude, 

Still bless auld Caledonia's brood 

Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's blude, 

In stowps or laggies ; 
An' on our board that king of food 
A glorious Haggice. 
Page 7J, col. 1, line 25. The dedication to 
Gavin Hamilton, the poet's friend and patron, 
did not, as might have been expected, open the 
volume published at Kilmarnock. It, however, 
finds its place in the body of the work. 

Page 77, col. 1, line 27. The ' lady ' referred 
to in this line was, Mr. Chambers informs us, a 
village belle. He adds that her name was well 
known in Mauchline. 

Page 78, col. 1, line 7. This Address was 
written in Edinburgh in 1786. 

Page 78, col. 1, line 35. ' Fair Burnet ' was 
the daughter of Lord Monboddo. Burns' ad- 
miration for her was intense. In a letter to Mr. 
Chalmers in December, 1786, he describes her 
as ' the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord 
Monboddo, at whose house I have had the 
honour to be more than once. There has not 
been anything nearly like her in all the combina- 
tions of beauty, grace, and goodness the great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the 
first day of her existence.' On returning from 
a first visit to his Lordship's house a friend 
asked Burns what he thought of the young lady. 
1 I admired God Almighty more than ever,' was 
the reply; 'Miss Burnet is the most heavenly 
of all his works.' Miss Burnet died of con- 
sumption in 1790, and Burns wrote a poor elegy 
on the occasion. 



Page 7Q, col. 1, line 1. ' The Epistle to John 
Lapraik was produced,' says Gilbert Burns, 
' exactly on the occasion described by the author. 
It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people with 
their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning 
" When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and 
we were informed who was the author. Upon 
this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik; 
and his second was in reply to his answer.' 

Page 82, col. 1, line 7. William Simpson 
was the schoolmaster of .Ochiltree parish. 

Page 83, col. 2, line 7. The postscript to the 
foregoing epistle may be considered as a pend- 
ant to ' The Twa Herds,' which was making 
a noise in Ayrshire at the time. 

Page 84, col. I, line 25. John Rankine lived 
at Adam-hill, in Ayrshire; he was a man of 
much humour, and was one of Burns' earliest 
friends. 

Page 84, col. 1, line 28. A certain humorous 
dream of his was then making noise in the 
country-side. R. B. Of this dream the sub- 
stance is thus related by Allan Cunningham. 

' Lord K was in the habit of calling his 

familiar acquaintances " brutes " or " damned 
brutes." One day meeting Rankine, his lordship 
said, " Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer 
story to tell us? " " I have nae story," said 
Rankine, " but last night I had an odd dream." 
" Out with it, by all means," said the other. 
" A weel ye see," said Rankine, " I dreamed 
that 1 was dead, and that for keeping other than 
good company on earth, I was damned. When 
I knocked at Hell-door, wha should open it but 
the Deil ; he was in a rough humour, and said, 
'Wha may you be, and what's your name?' 
' My name,' quoth I, ' is John Rankine, and 
my dwelling-place was Adam-hill.' ' Gi wa' 
wi',' quoth Satan, 'ye canna be here; yer ane 

of Lord K 's damned brutes — Hell's fou o' 

them already ]"" This sharp rebuke, it is said, 
polished for the future his lordship's speech. 
The trick alluded to in the same line, was 
Rankine's making tipsy one of the ' unco gude.' 

Page 8s, col. 1, line q. A song he had 
promised the author. 

Page 85, col. 1, line 2Q. Friar's Carse was 
the estate of Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel, 
beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, 
near Ellisland. The Hormitage was a decorated 
cottage, which the proprietor had erected. With 
reference to this poem, Burns wrote to Miss 
Chalmers, in September, 1788, ' One day, in an 
hermitage, on the banks of the Nith, belonging 
to a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so 
good as to give me a key at pleasure, I wrote as 
follows, supposing myself the sequestered ven- 
erable inhabitant of the lonely mansion.' 

Page 85, col. J, line 34. In a copy printed 
in the Gentleman's Magazine the following 
couplet occurs here ; — 

Day how rapid in its flight! 
Day how few must see the night. 




x^^ 




320 



NOTES. 




H;!"< rfg; 







$ 



Beneath thy morning-sun advance. Gent.'s 
Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 1, line 11. Var. 
When thy shades of ev'ning close. Gent.'s Mag. 

Page 86, col. 1, line iq. Var. 

genuine estimate 
Say the criterion of their fate 
The important query of their state, 
Is not, &c. Gefit.'s Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 1, line 22. Var. 

ebb or flow 
Wert thou cottager or king, 
Peer or peasant? no such thing 
Tell them, &c. Gent's Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 2, line ib. Var. 

Fame, a restless airy dream. Gent.'s Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 2, line 17. Var. 

Pleasures, insects on the wing; 

Round peace, the tenderest flower of spring. 
Gent.'s Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 2, line 20. Var. 
Make the butterflies their own. Gent.'s Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 2, line 25. Var. 
But thy utmost duty done. Gent.'s Mag. 

Page 8b, col. 2, line 3b. Var. 
Quod the Bedesman on Nitheside. Gent.'s Mag. 

Page 8b, col. I, line 38. The subject of this 
ode was the widow of Richard Oswald, Esq. of 
Auchincruive. She died December 6, 1788. 
Burns himself states the cause of its composi- 
tion. ' In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, 
I had to put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanqu- 
har, the only tolerable inn in the place. The 
frost was keen, and the grim evening and howl- 
ing wind were ushering in a night of snow and 
drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued 
by the labours of the day; and just as my friend 
the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the 
storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the fune- 
ral pageantry of the late Mrs. Oswald, and poor 
I am forced to brave all the terrors of the tem- 
pestuous night, and jade my horse — my young 
favourite horse, whom I had just christened 
Pegasus — farther on through the wildest hills 
and moors of Ayrshire to the next inn. The 
powers of poetry and prose sink under me when 
I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, 
that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so 
far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode.' Being dead, the poor 
lady could hardly be held responsible for dis- 
turbing the poet's potations with his friend 
Bailie ! 

Page 87, col. 1, line 12. In February, 1791, 
Burns wrote respecting this poem. ' The Elegy 
on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the mem- 
ory of a man I loved much. ... As almost all 
my righteous tenets originate from my heart, I 
am wonderfully pleased with the idea that I can 
still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly 
beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved 
mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits.' 

Page 88, col. 2, line 23. Readers curious in 




the transmission of poetic ideas, may amuse 
themselves by comparing this epitaph with 
Wordsworth's Poet's Epitaph. 

Page 8q, col. 1, line q. Writing to Mrs. 
Graham, of Fintry, Burns says, ' Whether it is 
that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has 
a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or 
whether I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded 
beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; 
but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my 
muse for a good while past; on that account I 
enclose it particularly to you.' 

Page qo, line 1. Robert Graham, Esq. of 
Fintry, was one of the Commissioners of Excise. 
Burns met him at the house of the Duke of 
Athole. The ' Epistle ' was the poet's earliest 
attempt in the manner of Pope. It has its 
merits, of course; but it lacks the fire, ease, and 
sweetness of his earlier epistles to Lapraik, 
Smith, and others. 

Page qi, line 3. In August, 1788, Burns 
sent Mrs. Dunlop sixteen lines of this epistle, 
which run as follows. ' The following are just 
the first crude thoughts,' he writes, ' unhousel'd, 
unanointed, unanell'd ! Here the muse left me.' 
' Pity the tuneful muse's helpless train — 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were bless'd did bliss on them depend ; 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend ! " 
The little fate bestows, they share as soon: 
Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule : 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool). 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should ; 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good? 
Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye; 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ' 

Page q2, line 1. 'By a fall not from my 
horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple 
some time.' Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, 7th Febru- 
ary, 1791. 

Page Q2, line 11. Var. 
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, 
The horned bull tremendous spurns the ground ; 
The lowly lion has enough and more, 
The forest trembles at his very roar. 

Page q2, line 14. Var. 
The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell — 

Page q2, line 21. Var. 
Even silly women have defensive arts, 
Their eyes, their tongues — and nameless other 
parts. 

Page q2, line 28. Var. 

No claws to dig, his dreaded sight to shun.- 

Page q2, line 31. Var. 

No nerves olfactory, true to Mammon's fool ; 

Or grunting grub, sagacious, evil's root; 

Or grunting, sage, to grub all-evil's root. 



^MPV 




NOTES. 



321 



Page Q2, line 30. Alexander Munro, Pro- 
fessor of Anatomy in the University of Edin- 
burgh. 

Page Q2, line 4b. Var. 
The hapless Poet flounces on through life. 

Page 03, line lb. Var. 
Conscious their great success they well deserve. 

Page 03, line 20. Var. 
When disappointment snaps the thread of hope. 

Page Q3, line 25. Var. 
Strong on the sign-post hangs the seeming ox. 

Page 03, line 20. All the rest of this Poem 
is yet without form and void in the pericranium 
of the poet. MS. 

Page Q3, line 33. James, Earl of Glencairn. 
See succeeding poem. 

Page Q3, col. I, line 4 fr. bottom. This 
nobleman, for whom the poet had a deep respect, 
died at Falmouth, in his forty-second year. 
Burns wore mourning for the Earl, and designed 
to attend his funeral in Ayrshire. He enclosed 
the poem to Lady Elizabeth Cunningham, sister 
of the deceased nobleman. 

Page qj, line j. ' When my father,' writes 
Gilbert Burns, 'feued his little property near 
Alloway Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had 
gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- 
ture in it. My father, with two or three other 
neighbours, joined in an application to the town 
council of Ayr, who were superiors of the ad- 
joining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and raised 
by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient 
cemetery with a wall; hence he came to con- 
sider it as his burial-place, and we learned that 
reverence for it people generally have for the 
burial-place of their ancestors. My brother was 
living at Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on his 
peregrinations through Scotland, stayed some 
time at Carse House, in the neighbourhood, 
with Captain Robert Riddel of Glenriddel, a 
particular friend of my brother's. The Anti- 
quarian and the Poet were " unco pack and 
thick thegither." Robert requested of Captain 
Grose, when he should come to Ayrshire, that 
he would make a drawing of Alloway Kirk, as 
it was the burial-place of his father, and where 
he himself had a sort of claim to lay down his 
bones when they should be no longer service- 
able to him; and added, by way of encourage- 
ment, that it was the scene of many a good 
story of witches and apparitions, of which he 
knew the Captain was very fond. The Captain 
agreed to the request, provided the poet would 
furnish a witch story, to be printed along with 
it. " Tam-o-Shanter " was produced on this 
occasion, and was first published in Grose's 
" Antiquities of Scotland." ' The following let- 
ter, sent by Burns to Captain Grose, deals with 
the witch stories that clustered round Alloway 
Kirk. 

' Among the many witch-stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway Kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

' Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 



of wind and bitter blasts of hail — in short, on 
such a night as the devil would choose to take 
the air in — a farmer, or a farmer's servant, 
was plodding and plashing homeward with his 
plough-irons on his shoulder, having been get- 
ting some repairs on them at a neighbouring 
smithy. His way lay by the Kirk of Alloway, 
and being rather on the anxious look-out in ap- 
proaching a place so well known to be a favourite 
haunt of the devil, and the devil's friends and 
emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering, 
through the horrors of the storm and stormy 
night, a light, which, on his nearer approach, 
plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted 
edifice. Whether he had been fortified from 
above on his devout supplication, as is customary 
with people when they suspect the immediate 
presence of Satan, or whether, according to 
another custom, he had got courageously drunk 
at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
but so it was, that he ventured to go up to, nay, 
into the very Kirk. As luck would have it, his 
temerity came off unpunished. 

' The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, 
depending from the roof, over the fire, simmer- 
ing some heads of unchristened children, limbs 
of executed malefactors, &c, for the business 
of the night. It was in for a penny, in for a 
pound, with the honest ploughman; so, without 
ceremony, he unhooked the caldron from off the 
fire, and pouring out its damnable ingredients, 
inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
home, where it remained long in the family, a 
living evidence of the truth of the story.' 

Another story, which I can prove to be equally 
authentic, was as follows : — 

"' On a market-day, in the town of Ayr, a farm- 
er from Carrick, and consequently whose way 
lay by the very gate of Alloway Kirk-yard, in 
order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, 
which is about two or three hundred yards 
farther on than the said gate, had been detained 
by his business, till by the time he reached Allo- 
way it was the wizard hour, between night and 
morning. 

' Though he was terrified with a blaze stream- 
ing from the Kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact, 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently 
advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the Kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it 
round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of his 
bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to ob- 
serve them a little, could plainly descry the faces 
of many of his acquaintance and neighbourhood. 
How the gentleman was dressed, tradition does 
not say, but that the ladies were all in their 
smocks; and one of them happening unluckily 




32: 



NOTES. 





to have a smock which was considerably too 
short to answer all the purposes of that piece of 
dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involun- 
tarily burst out, with a loud laugh, " Weel loop- 
pen Maggy wi' the short sark ! " and recollect- 
ing himself, instantly spurred his horse to the 
top of his speed. I need not mention the uni- 
versally known fact, that no diabolical power 
can pursue you beyond the middle of a running 
stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that 
the river Doon was so near, for notwithstanding 
the speed of his horse, which was a good one, 
against he reached the middle of the arch of 
the bridge, and consequently the middle of the 
stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags were so 
close at his heels, that one of them actually 
sprang to seize him ; but it was too late ; nothing 
was on her side of the stream but the horse's 
tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal 
grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; but 
the farmer was beyond her reach. However, 
the unsightly, tail-less condition of the vigorous 
steed was, to the last hours of the noble crea- 
ture's life, an awful warning to the Carrick farm- 
ers not to stay too late in Ayr markets.' 

This letter is interesting, as showing the 
actual body of tradition on which Burns had 
to work — the soil out of which the consum- 
mate poem grew like a flower. And it is worthy 
of notice also how, out of the letter, some of 
the best things in the poem have come : — ' Such 
a night as the devil would choose to take the 
air in ' being, for instance, the suggestion of the 
couplet — 

That night, a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 
It is pleasant to know that Burns thought well 
of ' Tam o' Shanter.' 

To Mrs. Dunlop he wrote on the nth April, 
1 791. ' On Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns 
made me a present of a fine boy, rather stouter, 
but not so handsome as your godson was at his 
time of life. Indeed, I look on your little name- 
sake to be my chef-d 'ceuvre in that species of 
manufacture, as I look on "Tam o' Shanter" 
to be my standard performance in the poetical 
line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other dis- 
cover a spice of roguish waggery, that might, 
perhaps, be as well spared: but then they also 
show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
finishing polish, that I despair of ever excelling.' 

Page q8, line 1. The following lines origin- 
ally occurred here: — 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 

Wi' lies seamed, like a beggar's clout; 

Three priests' hearts rotten, black as muck, 

Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk. 
They were omitted at the suggestion of Lord 
Woodhouselee. 

Page qq, line lb. It is a well-known fact, that 
witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to 
follow a poor wight any farther than the middle 
of the next running stream. It may be proper 
likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, 



that when he falls in with bogles, whatever dan- 
ger may be in his going forward, there is much 
more hazard in turning back. R. B. 

Page qq, line 34. ' Tam o' Shanter,' as 
already stated, appeared first in Captain Grose's 
' Antiquities of Scotland.' To the poem the 
editor appended the following note: ' To my 
ingenious friend, Mr. Robert Burns, I have been 
seriously obligated; for he was not only at the 
pains of making out what was most worthy of 
notice in Ayrshire, the county honoured by his 
birth, but he also wrote expressly for this work 
the pretty tale annexed to Alloway Church.' 
Grose's book appeared at the close of April, 
1 79 1, and he died in Dublin shortly after. 

Page qq, col. 1, line l. For information re- 
specting Captain Grose's intimacy with Burns, 
see preceding note. 

Page 100, col. 1, line 1. Vide his ' Antiqui- 
ties of Scotland.' R. B. 

Page 100, col. 1, line 20. Vide his ' Treatise 
on Ancient Armour and Weapons.' R. B. 

Page 100, line 8 fr. bottom. In a letter to 
Mr. Cunningham, 4th May, 1789, Burns writes: 
' I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- 
tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot 
a hare at this season when they all of them have 
young ones. Indeed, there is something in that 
business of destroying, for our sport, individuals 
in the animal creation that do not injure us 
materially, which I could never reconcile with 
my ideas of virtue.' The hare was wounded by 
the son of a farmer near Ellisland, and Burns 
threatened to throw him into the Nith for his 
inhumanity. 

Page 101, line 1. Var. 
Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form, 

That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy blood-stain'd bosom 
warm. 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe : 
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 
Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now provide 

That life a mother only can bestow? 

Page 101, line 8. Var. 
And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 

The changes in this poem were made on the 
suggestion of Dr. Gregory, to whom the poet 
had sent a copy. 

Page 101, col. 1, line 1. The Earl of Buchan 
was anxious that Burns should be present at the 
coronation of Thomson's bust on Ednam Hill, 
and hinted that if the muse proved propitious, 
an ode might be forthcoming on the interesting 
occasion. Burns wrote in reply : ' Your lord- 









NO TES. 



323 



ship hints at an ode for the occasion ; but who 
would write after Collins ? I read over his 
verses to the memory of Thomson and despaired. 
I got indeed the length of three or four stanzas, 
in the way of address to the shade of the bard, 
on crowning his bust. I shall trouble your lord- 
ship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I 
am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof 
how unequal I am to the task.' The first MS. 
copy of the Address began as follows ; — 

While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 
Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, 

Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 
A carpet for her youthful feet. 

While Summer,. with a matron's grace, 
Walks stately in the cooling shade, 

And oft delighted loves to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade. 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
With Age's hoary honours clad, 

Surveys, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed. &c. 

Page 101, col. 1, line 13. This poem was 
addressed to the daughter of Mr. William 
Cruickshank, one of the masters of the High 
School of Edinburgh. 

Page 102, col. 1, line I. Brother to Miss 
Isabella McLeod, a particular acquaintance of 
the author. R. B. John McLeod was the 
youngest son of McLeod of Ramsay. 

Page 102, col. 2, line 4. Var. 
And so her heart was wrung. MS. copy. 

Page 102, col. 2, line 7. Var. 
Can point the grief-worn, brimful eyes. MS. 
copy. 

Page 102, col. I, line 12. Bruar Falls, in 
Athol, are exceedingly picturesque and beauti- 
ful, but their effect is much impaired by the 
want of trees and shrubs. R. B. Burns sent 
the poem in September, 1787, to Mr. Walker, 
preceptor at Blair, with the following remarks: 
" I have just time to write the foregoing, and to 
tell you that it was (at least, most part of it) the 
effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do 
not mean it was extempore, for I have endeav- 
oured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol's chat 
and the jogging of the chaise would allow. It 
eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin 
with which a poet pays his debts of honour or 
gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of 
Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly 
boast; what I owe of the last, so help me God 
in my hour of need, I shall never forget.' 

Page 103, col. 1, line 11. Var. 

The bairdie, music's youngest child. 

Page 103, col. 2, line 27. Mr. Walker in his 
letter to Dr. Currie, describing the impression 
Burns made at Blair, says, 'The Duke's fine 
family attracted much of his admiration; he 
drank their health as honest men and bonie 
lassies, an idea which was much applauded by 



the company, and with which he has very felici- 
tously closed his poem.' 

Page 103, line 8 fr. bottom. Var. 
Brother Scots, brother Scots, wha believe in 
John Knox. 

The occasion of the satire was as follows. In 
1786, Dr. Wm. McGill, one of the ministers of 
Ayr, published an essay on ' The Death of Jesus 
Christ,' which was denounced as heterodox by 
Dr. Wm. Peebles, of Newton-upon-Ayr, in a 
sermon preached by him November 5th, 1788. 
Dr. McGill published a defence, and the case 
came before the Ayr presbytery, and finally 
before the synod of Glasgow and Ayr. In 
August, 1789, Burns wrote to Mr. Logan: ' I 
have, as you will shortly see, finished the 
' Kirk's Alarm,' but now that it is done, and 
that I have laughed once or twice at the con- 
ceits of some of the stanzas, I am determined 
not to let it get into the public ; so I send you 
this copy, the first I have sent to Ayrshire, 
except some few of the stanzas which I wrote off 
in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the ex- 
press provision and request that you will only 
read it to a few of us, and do not on any account 
give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the 
ballad.' With reference to the ballad he wrote 
to Mr. Graham of Fintry: ' I laughed myself at 
some conceits in it, though I am convinced in 
my conscience that there are a good many heavy 
stanzas in it too.' 

Page 103, line 4/r. bottom. Dr. McGill. 

Page 103, line 3 fr. bottom, Var. 
To strike wicked writers wi' terror. 

Page 104, line 3. John Ballantyne, Esq. 
Provost of Ayr. 

Page 104, line 4. Mr. Robert Aitken. 

Page 104, line 5. Rev. Dr. Wm. Dalrymple. 

Page 104, line a. Rev. John Russell, see 
' Holy Fair.' 

Page 104, line 13. Rev. James Mackinlay, 
see ' Ordination.' 

Page 104, line 77. Rev. Alexander Moodie, 
see ' The Twa Herds.' 

Page 104, li7ie 21. Rev. Mr. Auld. 

Page 104, line 22. Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 

Page 104, line 25. Mr. Grant, Ochiltree. 

Page 104, line 2Q. Mr. Young, Cumnock. 

Page 104, line 33. Rev. Dr. Wm. Peebles. 
He had written a poem which contained a ridi- 
culous line: — 

And bound in Liberty's endearing chain. 

Page 104, line 37. Dr. Andrew Mitchell, 
Monkton. 

Page 105, line 1. Rev. Stephen Young, 
Barr. 

Page 105, line 3. Rev. George Smith, Gal- 
ston, see ' Holy Fair.' 

Page 103, line a. Rev. John Shepherd, 
Muirkirk. 

Page 103, line 13. Mr. William Fisher, the 
' Holy Willie ' of the famous satire. 

Page 103, col. I, line 1. In writing from 
Ellisland to Mr. Creech, May, 1789, and enclos- 



324 



MNiiim 



NOTES. 



m 



ing a few of his recent productions, Burns says, 
' I had intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter ; but at present the delightful sensa- 
tions of an omnipotent toothache so engross all 
my inner man as to put it out of my power even 
to write nonsense.' Referring to the poems he 
goes on, ' I do not pretend that there is much 
merit in these morcecnix, but I have two rea- 
sons for sending them: primo, they are mostly 
ill-natured, so are in unison with my present 
feelings, while fifty troops of infernal spirits are 
driving past from ear to ear along my jawbones; 
and secondly' &c. 

Page iob, line iqfr. bottom. Var. 

The eye with pleasure and amazement fills. 

Page 107, col. 1, line I. Miss Susan Dun- 
lop, daughter of Mr. Dunlop, married a French 
gentleman named Henri. The young couple 
were living at Loudon Castle when M. Henri 
died, leaving his wife pregnant. The verses 
were written on the birth of a son and heir. 
Mrs. Dunlop communicated the intelligence to 
Burns, and received the following letter in return ; 
' " As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news from a far country ! " Fate has long owed 
me a letter of good news from you, in return 
for the many tidings of sorrow which I have 
received. In this instance I most cordially 
obey the Apostle — " Rejoice with them that do 
rejoice " — for me to sing for joy is no new 
thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in 
the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of 
extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. 
I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy. 
How could such a mercurial creature as a poet 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend? I seized my 
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the 
moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipped I 
among the blooming banks of Nith, to muse 
over my joy by retail. To keep within the 
bounds of prose was impossible.' Mr. Chambers 
traces the future history of Mrs. Henri and her 
son: ' In a subsequent letter Burns deplores her 
(Mrs. Henri's) dangerous and distressing situa- 
tion in France, exposed to the tumults of the 
Revolution ; and he has soon after occasion to 
condole with his venerable friend on the death 
of her daughter in a foreign land. When this 
sad event took place, the orphan child fell under 
the immediate care of his paternal grandfather, 
who, however, was soon obliged to take refuge 
in Switzerland, leaving the infant behind him. 
Years passed, he and the Scotch friends of the 
child heard nothing of it, and concluded that it 
was lost. At length, when the elder Henri was 
enabled to return to his ancestral domains, he 
had the unspeakable satisfaction of finding that 
his grandson and heir was alive and well, having 
never been removed from the place. The child 
had been protected and reared with the greatest 
care by a worthy female named Mademoiselle 




Susette, formerly a domestic in the family. 
This excellent person had even contrived, 
through all the levelling violence of the inter- 
vening period, to preserve in her young charge 
the feeling appropriate to his rank. Though 
absolutely indebted to her industry for his bread, 
she had caused him always to be seated by him- 
self at table and regularly waited on, so that the 
otherwise plebeian circumstances in which he 
lived did not greatly affect him. The subject 
of Burns' stanzas was, a very few years ago, 
proprietor of the family estates : and it is agree- 
able to add that Mademoiselle Susette then lived 
in his paternal mansion, in the enjoyment of 
that grateful respect to which her fidelity and 
discretion so eminently entitled her.' 

Page 107, col. 1, line b fr. botto7n. This 
epistle was prefixed to the edition of Sillars' 
poems, published in Kilmarnock in 1789. 

Page 108, col. I, line lq. The ' Inventory ' 
was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor 
of taxes for the district. It was first printed in 
the Liverpool edition of the poems. 

Page ioq, line 20 fr. bottom. 'As the au- 
thentic prose history of the Whistle is curious,' 
writes Burns, 'I shall here give it: — In the 
train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to 
Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came 
over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature 
and great prowess, and a matchless champion of 
Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which 
at the commencement of the orgies he laid on 
the table; and whoever was last able to blow it, 
everybody else being disabled by the potency of 
the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy 
of victory. The Dane produced credentials of 
his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts 
of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, 
and several of the petty courts in Germany; 
and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the 
alternative of trying his prowess, or else acknowl- 
edging their inferiority. After many overthrows 
on the part of the Scots, the Dane was en- 
countered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, 
ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that 
name, who after three days' and three nights' 
hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the 
table, 

"And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill." 
Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel of 
Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir 
Walter's. On Friday the 16th October, 1790, 
at Friar's Carse, the whistle was once more con- 
tended for, as related in the ballad, by the pres- 
ent Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert 
Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant 
and representative of Walter Riddel, who won 
the whistle, and in whose family it had con- 
tinued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craig- 
darroch, likewise descended of the great Sir 
Robert; which last gentleman carried off the 
hard-won honours of the field. R. B.' 

Oddly enough, on the 16th October, 1789, we 





VOTES. 



325 



have a letter from Burns addressed to Captain 
Riddel, referring to the Bacchanalian contest. 
' Big with the idea of this important day at 
Friar's Carse, I have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world by some 
phenomena of terrific portent. Yesternight, till 
a very late hour, did I wait with anxious horror 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the 
sky, or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandinavi- 
ans darting athwart the startled heaven, rapid 
as the ragged lightning, and horrid as the con- 
vulsions of nature that bury nations. 

' The elements, however, seem to take the 
matter very quietly: they did not even usher in 
the morning with triple suns and a shower of 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes and 
the mighty claret-shed of the day. For me, as 
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm, I shall 
" Hear astonished, and astonished sing: " — 
" The whistle and the man I sing, 
The man that won the whistle." ' 

And he concludes by wishing that the captain's 
head ' may be crowned by laurels to-night, and 
free from aches to-morrow.' Burns in his note 
is supposed to have made a mistake of a year. 
He says the whistle was contended for on Fri- 
day the 16th October, 1790, but in 1789 the 16th 
October fell on a Friday, and in 1790 it fell on 
a Saturday. 

It is not quite clear what share the poet took 
in the fray. Allan Cunningham states that the 
whistle was contended for ' in the dining-room 
of Friar's Carse in Burns' presence, who drank 
bottle after bottle with the competitors, and 
seemed disposed to take up the conqueror.' 
On the other hand, Mr. Hunter of Cockrune, 
in the parish of Closeburn, reports that he has 
a perfect recollection of the whole affair. He 
states that ' Burns was present the whole even- 
ing. He was invited to join the, party to see 
that the gentlemen drank fair, and to commemo- 
rate the day by writing a song. I recollect 
well, that when the dinner was over, Burns 
quitted the table, and went to a table in the 
same room, that was placed in a window that 
looked south-east ; and there he sat down for 
the night. I placed before him a bottle of rum, 
and another of" brandy, which he did not finish, 
but left a good deal of each when he rose from 
the table after the gentlemen had gone to bed. 
. . . When the gentlemen were put to bed, 
Burns walked home without any assistance, not 
being the worse of drink. When Burns was 
sitting at the table in the window, he had pen, 
ink, and paper, which I brought him at his own 
request. He now and then wrote on the paper, 
and while the gentlemen were sober, he turned 
round often, and chatted with them, but drank 
none of the claret which they were drinking. 

. . I heard him read aloud several parts of 
the poem, much to the amusement of the three 
gentlemen." It is just possible that Burns is 
after all correct enough in his dates. His letter 



to Captain Riddel on the 16th October, 1789, 
although clear enough as to the impending 
' Claret-shed,' hardly suggests that the writer 
expected to be present. The theory that the 
revel had been originally arranged for that date, 
and, unknown to Burns, suddenly postponed for 
a year, would explain the matter. 

Page ioq, line lb fr. bottom. See Ossian's 
Caric-thura. R. B. 

Page no, li7ie II. See Johnson's ' Tour to 
the Hebrides/ R. B. 

Page in, line 13. Concerning this ' sketch,' 
Burns wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, April, 1789. 

' I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 
present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the Right 
Hon. C. J. Fox; but how long that fancy may 
hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I 
have just rough-sketched as follows.' 

Page 112, li?ie 10. Var. 
Possessing the one, must imply you've the 
other. 
The verses following this line were first printed 
from a manuscript of Burns' in Pickering's 
edition. 

Page 112, col. 1, line 1. Burns had sent a 
letter to Dr. Blacklock, under charge of Robert 
Heron, detailing certain recent changes in his 
circumstances. The letter miscarried, and 
Blacklock addressed Burns in the following 
epistle. 

' Edinburgh, 24th August, 1789. 
' Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art: 
If art it may be called in thee, 
Which Nature's bounty large and free 
With pleasure on thy heart diffuses, 
And warms thy soul witb all the Muses: 
Whether to laugh with easy grace, 
Thy numbers move the sage's face, 
Or bid the softer passions rise, 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis Nature's voice distinctly felt, 
Thro' thee, her organ, thus to melt. 
Most anxiously I wish to know 
With thee, of late, how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth? 
WTiether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive? 
And how thy darling infants thrive? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depressed no more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy, 
And thus my circling hours employ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain, 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

' Thos. Blacklock.' 





■•*7 ' 



326 



NOTES. 









To this graceful effusion, breathing interest 
and good wishes, Burns responded, in a light 
mood at first, but which becomes overclouded 
with bitterness towards the close. 

Page 113, line 30 fr. bottom. In writing to 
his brother Gilbert, nth January, 1790, Burns 
says : — 

'We have got a set of very decent players here 
just now. I have seen them an evening or two. 
David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the 
manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who 
is a man of apparent worth. On new year's day 
evening, I gave him the following prologue, 
which he spouted to his audience with applause.' 

Page 114, line 5. Miss Burnet, daughter of 
Lord Monboddo, celebrated in the Address to 
Edinburgh. This elegy seems to have cost 
the poet considerable trouble. In a letter to 
Mr. Cunningham, January, 1791, he says : — 
' I have these several months been hammering 
at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no farther 
than the following fragment.' 

Page iij, col. 1, line 1. This epistle is sup- 
posed to have been sent to Mr. Peter Stuart, of 
the Star newspaper. From the remonstrance 
which follows, it would seem that the newspaper 
did not arrive with the punctuality which was 
desired. 

Page us, col. 1, line 25. Basil William, 
Lord Daer, son of the Earl of Selkirk, died in 
1794, in his thirty-second year. Burns met him 
at Professor Dugald Stewart's villa at Catrine. 
The Professor in speaking of the meeting, and 
of Burns' behaviour thereat, says: ' His man- 
ners were then, as they continued ever after- 
wards, simple, manly, and independent ; strongly 
expressive of conscious genius and worth, but 
without any thing that indicated forwardness, 
arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in 
conversation, but not more than belonged to 
him; and listened with apparent attention and 
deference on subjects where his want of educa- 
tion deprived him of the means of information. 
If there had been a little more of gentleness 
and accommodation in his temper, he would, I 
think, have been still more interesting; but he 
had been accustomed to give law in the circle 
of his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of 
any thing approaching to meanness or servility 
rendered his manner somewhat decided and 
hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable, 
among his various attainments, than the fluency 
and precision and originality of his language 
when he spoke in company; more particularly 
as he aimed at purity in his tone of expres- 
sion, and avoided, more successfully than most 
Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phrase- 
ology.' Lord Daer was the first man of rank 
whom Burns had met in society, and his poem 
describing the meeting is illumined by a very 
natural elation. 

Page lib, line 2b fr. bottom. Miss Fonte- 
nelle was an actress at the Dumfries Theatre. 



In sending her the address, Burns writes, 'Will 
the foregoing lines be of any service to you in 
your approaching benefit night ? If they will, 
I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. They 
are nearly extempore ; I know they have no 
great merit; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to 
declare how much I have the honour to be, &c.' 

Page lib, line 21 fr. botto7n. Var. 
The rights of woman claim some small attention. 

Page 11b, line 14 fr. bottom. Var. 

Our second right — but idle here is caution. 

Page lib, line 8 fr. bottom. Var. 
Got drunk, would swagger, swear, kick up a 
riot. 

Page 11b, line 3 fr. bottom. An ironical 
allusion to the saturnalia of the Caledonian 
Hunt. 

Page 117, line 2. Var. 

Must fall before — 'tis dear, dear admiration. 

Page 117, line 4. Var. 

And thence that life of life — immortal Love. 

Page 118, line 13. Burns wrote Mr. Thom- 
son, July, 1794 — 'I have presented a copy of 
your songs to the daughter of a much-valued 
and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham, 
of Fintry. I wrote, on the blank side of the 
title-page, the following address to the young 
lady.' 

Page 118, line 14. Var. 

In strains divine and sacred numbers join'd. 

Page 118, line 22. Var. 

As modest want the secret tale reveals. 

Page 118, line 23. Var. 
While virtue, conscious, all the strain endears. 

Page 118, col. 1, line 1. Gilbert Burns 
doubted whether the Poem on Pastoral Poetry 
was written by his brother. Few readers, we 
fancy, can have any doubt on the matter. Burns 
is, unquestionably, the author. The whole 
poem is filll of lines which are ' like autographs,' 
and the four closing stanzas are in the poet's 
best manner. 

Page nq, col. 1, line 15. With reference to 
these verses Burns, in 1795, wrote Mr. Thom- 
son — ' Written on the blank leaf of a copy of 
the last edition of my poems, presented to the 
lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of 
passion, but with the most ardent sentiments 
of real friendship, I have so often sung under 
the name of Chloris.' The lady was Miss Jean 
Lorimer, daughter of a farmer residing at some 
little distance from Dumfries. Chloris was the 
most unfortunate of all Burns' heroines. While 
very young she eloped with a gentleman named 
Whelpdale, and was shortly after deserted by 
him. She died in 1831, having lived the greater 
portion of her life in penury. 

Page 120, line 1. Mr. Tytler had published 
an 'Inquiry, Historical and Critical, into the 
evidence against Mary Queen of Scots.' 

Page 120, line 2J. An artist, named Miers, 
was then. practising in Edinburgh as a maker 






NOTES. 



327 



of silhouette portraits. Burns sat to him, and 
to Mr. Tytler he forwarded one of Miers' 
performances. 

Page 121, col. 1, line 1. This sketch is 
descriptive of the family of Mr. Dunlop, of 
Dunlop. 

Page 121, col. 1, line II. Afterwards Gen- 
eral Dunlop, of Dunlop. 

Page 112, col. 1, line 13. Miss Rachel 
Dunlop was making a sketch of Coila. 

Page 121, col. 1, line 14. Miss Keith Dun- 
lop, the youngest daughter. 

Page 121, line 8 fr. bottom. Burns and 
Smellie were members of a club in Edinburgh 
called the Crochallan Fencibles. 

Page 122, line 8. Mrs. Riddel, of Woodley 
Park, was the lady satirized in these verses. 

Page 123, col. 1, line q. Miss Jessie Lewars 
attended Burns in his last illness. 

Page 124, line 12 fr. bottom. Mr. John 
Syme was one of the poet's constant com- 
panions. He possessed great talent, and Dr. 
Currie wished him to undertake the editing of 
the poet's life and writings. 

Page 125, col. 1, line 13. Mr. Riddel, of 
Woodley Park, was the gentleman to whom 
these lines were addressed. 

Page 127, col. 1, line 7. In enclosing these 
verses to Mr. Creech, Burns writes — 'The 
enclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, 
in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable 
wet day's riding.' 

Page 128, line 5 fr. bottom. In a MS. in 
the possession of the Publisher, two additional 
stanzas are given : — 
She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless 

fate, 
Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd, 
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State, 
And thankless starv'd what they so much 

admir'd. 
This humble tribute with a tear he gives, 
A brother Bard, he can no more bestow: 
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, 
A nobler monument than Art can show. 

Page I2q, line 1. On the 25th June, 1794, 
Burns sent ' Liberty, a Fragment,' to Mrs. 
Dunlop, with the following remarks. ' Here, 
in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set 
by myself to amuse my brooding fancy as I 
may. . . I am just going to trouble your critical 
patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have 
been framing as I paced along the road. The 
subject is Liberty. You know, my honoured 
friend, how dear the subject is to me. I design 
it as an irregular ode for General Washington's 
birthday.' 

Page 130, col. 1, li?ie 1. Ruisseaux — a play 
upon the poet's own name. 

Page 130, col. 1, line q. Mrs. Scott, of 
Wauchope, Roxburghshire, had sent a rhymed 
epistle to Burns, displaying considerable vigour 
of thought, and neatness of expression. 



Page 132, col. I, line 1. Regarding this 
poem, Burns informed Dr. Moore that, ' The 
first of my poetic offspring that saw the light 
was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel be- 
tween two reverend Calvinists, both of them 
dramatis personam, my " Holy Fair." I had 
a notion myself that the piece had some met it: 
but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to 
a friend who was very fond of such things, and 
told him that I could not guess who was the 
author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. 
With a certain description of the clergy, as well 
as laity, it met with a roar of applause. 

Page 132, col. 1, line q. Var. 

These five and fifty summers past. 

Page 132, col. 1, line 2q. Var. 

Frae Calvin's fountain-head they drank. 

Page 132, col. 2, line 8. Var. 

Or nobly swing the gospel club. 

Page 132, col. 2, line 17. Var. 
While enemies wi' laughin' spite. 

Page 132, col. 2, line 21. Var. 

But chiefly thee, apostle Auld. 

Page 132, col. 2, line 24. Var. 
To gar them gree. 

Page 132, col. 2, line 2q. Var. 

I trust in Heaven to see them yet. 
Page 133, col. /, line 1. Var. 

Auld Wodrow lang has wrought mischief. 

Page 133, col. 1, line 2. Var. 

We trusted death wad bring relief. 

Page 133, line 18 fr. bottom. The Rev. 
Mr. M'Math was, when Burns addressed him, 
assistant and successor to the Rev. Peter Wod- 
row, minister of Torbolton. He is said to have 
been an excellent preacher. 

Page 135, col. 1, line 1. ' Holy Willie ' was 
William Fisher, the leading elder in the Rev. 
Mr. Auld's session. He was afterwards found 
guilty of embezzling money from the church 
offerings, and died in a ditch, into which he 
had fallen when drunk. 

Page 137, col. 1, line 17. Written while 
Burns was on a visit to Sir William Murray, of 
Ochtertyre. 

Page 138, col. 1, line 1. Master Tootie was 
a dealer in cows, who lived in Mauchline. It 
was his practice to disguise the age of his 
cattle by polishing away the markings on their 
horns. 

Page 138, line 12 fr. bottom. The news- 
paper contained some strictures on Burns' 
poetry. 

Page I3q, col. 1, line 17. John Maxwell, 
Esq. of Terraughty and Munches. He died 
in 1814. 

Page 141, line I. It is very doubtful whether 
Burns is the author of this piece. 

Page 141, line 33. The ' Sketch ' is a por- 
tion of a work, ' The Poet's Progress,' which 
Burns meditated, but of which hardly any 
portion seems to have ever been written. The 
immediate object of his satire is said to have 
been his publisher Creech 




f^AJ^WSf O^B^ \\ M^ iKsSSm* % _ JVm&M>m±m^ 



NOTES. 






Page 144, line 10. Var. 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beyond the western wave. 

Page 143, col. 1, line 1. This ode was first 
printed in a London newspaper. 

Page 14b, col. 1, line 1. Burns' illegitimate 
daughter married Mr. John Bishop, overseer at 
Polkemmet, and died in 1817. . She is said to 
have been strikingly like her father. 

Page 146, col. 1, line iq. Miss Ferrier, 
authoress of Marriage and Destiny. 

Page 147, col. J, line I. In 1780, Mr. John 
Goldie, or Goudie, a tradesman in Kilmarnock, 
published a series of Essays touching the 
authority of the Scriptures. A second edition 
of the work appeared in 1785. Burns' epistle 
to him, although written when Ayrshire was 
convulsed with the New Light and Auld Light 
controversies, was not published till 1801. It 
appeared first in the Glasgow edition of the 
poem. 

Page 147, col. 2, line 11. Dr. Taylor of 
Norwich, the author of a work entitled, ' The 
Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin proposed to 
Free and Candid Examination,' which was ex- 
tensively read by the New Light party in Ayr- 
shire at the time. 

Page 147, col. 1, line 13. Mr. James Tait 
of Glenconnor was an old friend of the poet, and 
was consulted by him respecting the taking of 
the farm of Ellisland. 

Page 14S, col. 1, li7ie iq. Written from 
Ellisland to his friend, Mr. Hugh Parker of 
Kilmarnock. 

Page 14Q, line I. ' The Esopus of this 
strange epistle,' says Mr. Allan Cunningham, 
' was Williamson the actor, and the Maria to 
whom it was* addressed was Mrs. Riddel.' 

Page 130, line 3b. These lines form the con- 
clusion of a letter written by Burns to Mr. John 
Kennedy, dated August, 1786, while his inten- 
tion yet held of emigrating to Jamaica. 

Page 131, line 1. ' The Farewell ' was writ- 
ten in the autumn of 1786, when the idea of 
emigration was firmly fixed in the poet's mind. 

Page 131, line 2q. A person named Glendin- 
ning, who took away his own life, was the sub- 
ject of this epigram. Mr. Cunningham adds 
the following particulars: ' My friend Dr. Cop- 
land Hutchison happened to be walking out 
that way' — to a place called the 'Old Chapel 
near Dumfries,' where Glendinning had been 
interred. ' He saw Burns with his foot on the 
grave, his hat on his knee, and paper laid on 
his hat, on which he was writing. He then 
took the paper, thrust it with his finger into the 
red mould of the grave, and went away. This 
was the above epigram, and such was the poet's 
mode of publishing it.' 

Page 131, line 33. ' This was spoken,' says 
Mr. Allan Cunningham, ' in reply to a gentle- 
man who sneered at the sufferings of Scotland 
for conscience' sake, and called the Solemn 
League and Covenant of the Lords and People 
ridiculous and fanatical.' It is curious as the 




only expression of sympathy with the Covenant- 
ing cause which occurs in Burns. 

Page 133, col. 1, line 1. These verses were 
inscribed by Burns on the back of a window- 
shutter of an inn or toll-house near the scene of 
the devastations. 

Page 15b, col. 1, line 1. Major Logan, a re- 
tired military officer, fond of wit, violin-playing, 
and conviviality, who lived at Park, near Ayr. 

Page 137, col. 1, line q. These verses form 
the conclusion of a letter written to Mr. John 
Kennedy from Mossgiel, of date 3d March, 1786. 

Page 137, col. 1, line 27. These lines were 
preserved by Miss Louisa Laurie, and appear 
to have been written on the same evening with 
the well-known ' Verses left in the room where 
he slept.' 

Page 138, line q. Gabriel Richardson was a 
brewer in Dumfries. The epitaph was written 
on a goblet, which is still preserved in the 
family. 

Page 138, line 25. Written in reply to the 
Minister of Gladsmuir, who had attacked Burns 
in verse relative to the imprudent lines inscribed 
on a window-pane in Stirling. 

Page ijq, col. 1, line 1. These verses were 
originally headed, 'To the Right Honourable 
the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right 
Honourable and Honourable the Highland So- 
ciety, which met on the 23d of May last, at the 
Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways 
and means to frustrate the designs of five hun- 
dred Highlanders, who, as the Society were in- 
formed by Mr. Mackenzie of Applecross, were 
so audacious as to attempt an escape from their 
lawful lords and masters, whose property they 
were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. 
M'Donald of Glengarry to the Wilds of Canada 
in search of that fantastic thing — Liberty.' 

Page ibo, line 1. Lord President Dundas 
died on the 13th December, 1787, and Burns 
composed the elegy at the suggestion of Mr. 
Charles Hay, advocate, afterwards elevated to 
the bench under the designation of Lord New- 
ton. On a copy of the elegy Burns afterwards 
wrote: ' The foregoing poem has some tolerable 
lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride 
will not suffer me to correct, or even to peruse 
it. I sent a copy of it, with my best prose let- 
ter, to the son of the great man, by the hands of 
one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexan- 
der Wood, surgeon. When behold ! his solicitor- 
ship took no more notice of my poem or me 
than if I had been a strolling fiddler, who had 
made free with his lady's name over a silly new 
reel. Did the gentleman imagine that I looked 
for any dirty gratuity? ' 

Page ib2, line 4fr. bottom. ' The Grace' 
was repeated at St. Mary's Isle at the request of 
the Earl of Selkirk. 

Page ib3, col. 1, line 1. The mare, who was 
named after the insane female who attempted 
the life of George III., was the property of 
Burns' friend Mr. William Nicol. 





NO TES. 



Page 163, col. 1, line 15. Written at Castle 
Kenmure at the request of Mr. Gordon, whose 
dog had recently died. 

Page it>4, Hue 1. While Miss Lewars was 
attending Burns she became slightly indisposed. 
' You must not die yet,' said the poet; and writ- 
ing the four lines on a goblet he presented it, 
saying, ' This will be a companion for the 
" Toast.'" 

Page 164, line 5. On Miss Lewars recover- 
ing he said ' There is a poetic reason for it,' and 
wrote these lines. 

Page ibj, c °l- z * H 1ie *• Mr. Chalmers was 
a writer in Ayr, and in love. He desired Burns 
to address the lady in his behalf. 

Page ibj, line 4 fr. bottom. This epigram, 
it is said, silenced a gentleman who was talking 
mightily of Dukes at the table of Maxwell of 
Terraughty. 

Page ibb, line 1. The note on which Burns 
wrote these lines is on the Bank of Scotland, 
dated 1st March, 1780. 

Page ibb, line II. These lines — with one 
exception, the only attempt of Burns in blank 
verse — occur in his commonplace-book, April, 
1783. It will be seen that the poet had not at- 
tained any considerable mastery over the most 
difficult of poetic measures. 

Page ibb, line 33. ' The Toast ' was written 
by Burns on a goblet, and presented to Miss 
Lewars. 

Page ibj, col. 1, line 1. Burns arrived at 
Wanlockhead on a winter day, and was anxious 
to have the shoes of his mare frosted. The 
smith was busy, and could not attend. Burns 
then scribbled these verses to Mr. John Taylor, 
a person of some importance in the place. 
Through Taylor's influence the smith's services 
were secured; and for thirty years afterwards it 
is said Vulcan was in the habit of boasting 
' that he had never been weel paid but ance, and 
that was by a poet, who paid him in money, 
paid him in drink, and paid him in verse.' 

Page ibj, col. 1, line 13. In some MS. 
copies these stanzas conclude ' The Epistle to 
John Lapraik, an Old Scottish Bard.' 

Page ib8, line 1. These lines occur in one 
of the letters to Clarinda. 

Page ib8, line q. These verses were first 
printed by Cromek. 

Page ib8, line 17. The Loyal Natives was 
a club in Dumfries, ' more distinguished,' says 
Cromek, ' for drunken loyalty than for respecta- 
bility and poetic talent.' 

Page ibq, line 1. These lines occur in one 
of the letters to Clarinda. 

Page ibq, line iq. Mr. Cobbett, who first 
printed these lines, says: 'It is our fortune to 
know a Mr. Kennedy, an aged gentleman, a 
native of Scotland, and the early friend and as- 
sociate of Robert Burns. Both were born in 
Ayrshire, near the town of Ayr, so frequently 
celebrated in the poems of the bard. Burns, as 
is well known, was a poor peasant's son; and in 




the " Cotter's Saturday Night " gives a noble 
picture of what we may presume to be the family 
circle of his father. Kennedy, whose boyhood 
was passed in the labours of a farm, subsequently 
became the agent to a mercantile house in a 
neighbouring town. Hence he is called, in an 
epitaph which his friend the Poet wrote on him, 
" The Chapman." These lines, omitted in all 
editions of Burns' works, were composed on 
Kennedy's recovery from a severe illness. On 
his way to kirk on a bright Sabbath morning, 
he was met by the Poet, who, having rallied him 
on the sombre expression of his countenance, 
fell back, and soon rejoined him, presenting him 
with the epitaph scrawled on a bit of paper with 
a pencil.' 

Page iyi, col. I, line 1. These verses, in- 
scribed to Gavin Hamilton, were printed for the 
first time in Pickering's edition. 

Page Ijl, col. /, line 25. These lines occur in 
a letter addressed by Burns to Mr. Robert Ainslie. 

Page 172, line 1. Burns in early life sketched 
the outlines of a tragedy, and the ' Tragic Frag- 
ment ' was ' an exclamation from a great charac- 
ter — great in occasional instances of generosity, 
and daring at times in villanies. He is sup- 
posed to meet a child of misery and exclaims to 
himself.' 

Page 172, line 25. These lines first appeared 
in the edition published at Glasgow in 1801. 

Page IJ3, col. I, line 1. The following frag- 
ments are extracted from Burns' commonplace- 
book, but the authorship is doubtful. 

Page 174, col. 2, line 1. These lines first ap- 
peared in the edition published at Glasgow in 
1 801. 

Page 174, col. 2, line q. On Burns' arrival 
at Inverary the Castle and Inn were filled with 
visitors to the Duke, and the Innkeeper was too 
busy to pay attention to the Poet and his friend. 
The epigram, which was first published in the 
Glasgow edition, is supposed to have been writ- 
ten on one of the windows. 

Page 174, col. 2, line 17. These lines first 
appeared in the edition published at Glasgow in 
1 801. 

Page 17b, col. 1, line 1. The Tailor's epistle 
is as follows. Burns' reply was first published 
at Glasgow in 1801. 

Epistle from a Tailor to Robert Burns. 

What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear, 
Folk tell me, ye're gawn aff this year 

Out o'er the sea. 
Aur lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee. 
Weel wad I like war ye to stay, 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I ha'e a word yet mair to say, 

And maybe twa ; 
May He protect us night and day 

That made us a'. 



WM: 




f^tfp&ew 



330 



NOTES. 




Whar thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek Him to bear thee companie, 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

Ye 11 won aboon, 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear 
To get a wean, an' curse an' swear: 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sic a trade. 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear 

I wad be glad. 
Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell, 
Gin ye persist in doin' ill — 
Waes me ! ye're hurlin' down the hill 

Withouten dread, 
An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill 

After ye're dead. 

There, walth o' women ye'll get near, 
But gettin' weans ye will forbear, 
Ye'll never say, my bonie dear, 

Come, gie's a kiss — 
Nae kissing then — ye'll grin an' sneer, 

An' ither hiss. 

O Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks, 
An' steer nae mair the female sex, 
Or some day ye'll come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'll sec ; 
Ye'll fin' hard living wi' Auld Nicks: 

I'm wae for thee. 
But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 
, Amaist as loud as ony bell, 
While it does mak' my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel', 

Owre sib to you ! 

We're owre like those wha think it fit, 
To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit, 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light, 
To let them see down to the pit, 

That lang dark night. 
But farewell, Rab, I maun awa', 
May He that made us keep us a', 
For that wad be a dreadfu' fa', 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava' 

Sae, Rab, tak' care. 

Page 177, line 13. John Stewart, eighth 
Earl of Galloway, who died in 1796. Burns dis- 
liked this nobleman, and his dislike descended 
in a shower of brilliant epigrams. 

Page 178, line 1. This epitaph, and the fol- 
lowing epigrams, appeared in the Kilmarnock, 
but were omitted in the first Edinburgh and 
subsequent editions. 

Page i"jq t line 7. Printed in Cromek's Re- 
liques. 

Page ijq, line 11. Printed in the Glasgow 
Collection, 1801. 



Page 180, col. I, line 1. Printed in Cromek's 
Reliques. 

Page 180, col. 1, line iq. Printed in the 
Glasgow edition, 1801. 

Page 180, col. 1, line 2$. Burns' friend, 
James Smith, of Mauchline. This epitaph was 
printed in the Glasgow Collection. 

Page 181, line j. Captain Grose was ex- 
tremely corpulent. This Epigram was printed 
in the Glasgow Collection, 1801. 

Page 181, line 75*. Printed in the Glasgow 
Collection, 1801. 

Page 182, line I. Printed in the Glasgow 
Collection, 1801. In a letter to Clarinda in 
1787, Burns refers to this epigram. ' Did I ever 
repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. 
Elphinstone, who has given a translation of 
Martial, a famous Latin poet ? The poetry of 
Elphinstone can only equal his prose-notes. I 
was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaint- 
ance, waiting somebody; he put Elphinstone 
into my hand, and asked my opinion of it; I 
begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which 
I did.' 

Page 182, li7ie 13. This epitaph was printed 
in the Kilmarnock edition. ' Jamie ' was James 
Humphrey, a mason in Mauchline, who was 
wont to hold theological disputations with the 
Poet. 

Page 182, line 17. ' Wee Johnie ' was John 
Wilson, the printer of the Kilmarnock edition, 
in which edition Burns wickedly inserted the 
epitaph. Wilson printed, unconscious that he 
had any other interest in the matter than a com- 
mercial one. 

Page 182, line 21. This, and the two follow- 
ing epitaphs, were printed in the Kilmarnock 
edition. 

Page 183, line q. Printed in the Kilmarnock 
edition. In a copy in the poet's handwriting the 
first line reads : — 

• O ye who sympathize with virtue's pains.' 

Page 183, line id. Goldsmith. R. B. 

Page 185, col. I, line 1. In the Kilmarnock, 
Edinburgh, and several subsequent editions, the 
first line of the ' Bard's Epitaph' is printed: — 
' Is there a whim-inspir'd fool.' 

Page 18b, line 1. These lines were inscribed 
on a pane of glass in Mr. M'Murdo's house. 

Page 186, line 18. The Right Worshipful 
Master, Major-General James Montgomery. On 
the 24th of June (St. John's day), the Masonic 
Club in Mauchline, of which Burns was a mem- 
ber, contemplated a procession. Burns sent 
the rhymed note to Dr. Mackenzie, with whom 
he had lately been discussing the origin of 
morals. 

Page 188, col. I, line 1. This song was com- 
posed in honour of Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, 
sister of the Laird of Ballochmyle, whom Burns 
had met in one of his evening walks. In a letter 
addressed to the lady, he gives the following 
account of its composition: — 

' Madam, — Poets are such outre beings, so 





NOTES. 



much the children of wayward fancy and capri- 
cious whim, that I believe the world generally 
allows them a larger latitude in the laws of 
propriety than the sober sons of judgment and 
prudence. I mention this as an apology for the 
liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with 
you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave 
to present you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not 
the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities 
can produce; and what to a good heart will, 
perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere 
and fervent. 

' The scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though I dare say, madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved 
out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts 
of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view 
nature in all the gaiety of the vernal year. The 
evening sun was flaming over the distant west- 
ern hills; not a breath stirred the crimson open- 
ing blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It 
was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I list- 
ened to the feathered warblers, pouring their 
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kin- 
dred regard, and frequently turned out of my 
path lest I should disturb their little songs, or 
frighten them to another station. Surely, said 
I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
regardless of your harmonious efforts to please 
him, can eye your elusive nights to discover your 
secret recesses, and to rob you of all the prop- 
erty nature gives you — your dearest comforts, 
your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary haw- 
thorn twig that shot across the way, what heart 
at such a time but must have been interested in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved from the 
rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern 
blast ? Such was the scene, and such the hour, 
when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of 
the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that 
ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's 
eye; those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings. Had Calumny 
and Villany taken my walk, they had at that 
moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. 
What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would 
have raised dull historic prose into metaphor and 
measure. The enclosed song was the work of 
my return home; and perhaps it but poorly 
answers what might have been expected from 
such a scene. I have the honour to be, madam, 
your most obedient and very humble servant, — 

Miss Alexander, to Burns' chagrin, did not 
acknowledge either song or letter. The family 
may boast now of what, in all probability, it 
formerly resented as impertinence. 
Page 188, col. I, line IS- Var. 
The lilly-hue, and rose's dye 
Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Page 188, col. 2, line 3. Var. 

And all her other charms are foil'd. 



Page 188, col. 2, line 5. Var. 

O if she were a country maid. 

Page 188, col. z, line 21. This song was 
written when Burns brought his wife home to 
Ellisland. 

Page i8q, line 1. Burns wrote to Mr. Dun- 
lop, December, 1791 : — 

' I have just finished the following song, which, 
to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and many 
heroes of his truly illustrious line — and herself 
the mother of several soldiers — needs neither 
preface nor apology. The circumstance that 
gave rise to the following verses, was looking 
over with a musical friend M'Donald's collection 
of Highland Airs. I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or 
The Song of Death, to the measure of which I 
have adapted my stanzas.' 

Page i8q, line 2. Var. 

Now gay with the broad setting sun. 

Page i8q, line 17. The two first lines of this 
song are taken from an old Scotch ballad, 
printed in Johnson's Museum. Mr. Chambers 
states that the second stanza was designed as a 
description of Charlotte Hamilton. 

Page iqo, col. 1, line 1. In sending this song 
to Mr. Thomson, Burns writes: — 

' Let me tell you that you are too fastidious 
in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just: the songs you specify 
in your list have, all but one, the faults you re- 
mark in them; but who shall mend the matter? 
Who shall rise up and say, " Go to ! I will make 
a better." For instance, on reading over The 
Lea-Rig, I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which, Heaven 
knows, is poor enough.' 

Page iqo, col. 1, line 5. Var. 

Down by the burn, where birken buds. 
100, col. 2, line 1. Var.. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wet. 

Page iqo, col. 1, line 13. In November, 1792, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: — 

' If you mean, my dear sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in 
the undertaking than you are aware of. There 
is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and 
a necessity of adapting syllables to the empha- 
sis, or what I would call the feature-notes of the 
tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under 
almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in 
the air, My wife's a wanton wee thing, if a few 
lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it 
is all you can expect. The following were made 
extempore to it; and though, on further study, 
I might give you something more profound, yet 
it might not suit the light-horse-gallop of the air 
so well as this random clink.' 

Page iqo, col. 1, line 15. In Burns' MS. this 
line stood — 

' She is a winsome wee thing.' 
It was altered, as in the text, by Mr. Thomson. 










332 



¥^w^ 




NOTES. 



Page iqo, col. I, line 21. Duncan Grayv/as 
suggested by a somewhat licentious ditty pub- 
lished in Johnson's Museum : the first and part 
of the third line being retained. With reference 
to this song, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, 
December, 1792: 'The foregoing I submit to 
your better judgment; acquit them or condemn 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Dtincan 
Gray is that kind of horse-gallop of an air which 
precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling 
feature.' 

Page iqi, col. 2, line 21. Var. 
How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate. — MS. 

Page iqi, col. 1, line 28. About this song 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, January, 1793: — 

' The very name of Peter Pindar is an acqui- 
sition to your work. His "Gregory" is beau- 
tiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
in Scots on the same subject, which are at your 
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists 
with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. 
My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it.' 

Dr. Wolcott's song (Peter Pindar) may be 
inserted here for purposes of comparison. 

' Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 
A midnight wanderer sighs; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 
' Who comes with wo at this drear night, — 
A pilgrim of the gloom? 
If she whose love did once delight, 

My cot shall yield her room. 
' Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 
That once was prized by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 
' But should'st thou not poor Marion know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow 
Far kinder than thy heart.' 

Page JQ2, col. 1, line 13. In July, 1793, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: 'I have just fin- 
ished the following ballad, and, as I do think it 
in my best style, I send it to you. Mr. Clarke, 
who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns' wood- 
note wild, is very fond of it, and has given it a 
celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of 
the first fashion here. . . . The heroine of the 
foregoing is a Miss M'Murdo, daughter to Mr. 
M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, one of your subscrib- 
ers. I have not painted her in the rank which 
she holds in life, but in the dress and character 
of a cottager.' 

Page IQ2, col. 2, line 17. In the original MS. 
Burns asks Mr. Thomson if this stanza is not 
original. 

Page IQ3, col. 1, line q. Burns wrote to Mr. 
Thomson, June, 1793: — 

' Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation, on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom 



against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay 
nations waste out of the wantonness of ambition, 
or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a 
mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air of 
Logan Water; and it occurred to me that its 
querulous melancholy probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of 
some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done any thing at all like jus- 
tice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation 
in my elbow chair, ought to have some merit.' 

Page IQ3, col. 1, line 15. This, and the fol- 
lowing line, were taken irom a song to the same 
air, written by John Mayne, afterwards author 
of the Siller Gun, and published in the Star 
newspaper in 1789. 

Page IQ3, col. 1, line 25. In August, 1793, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson : ' I have tried my 
hand on Robin Adair, and you will probably 
think with little success; but it is such a cursed, 
cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair 
of doing any thing better to it. So much for 
namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand 
on it in Scots verse. There I always find my- 
self most at home.' Phillis the Fair is said 
to have been Miss M'Murdo, — sister of the 
heroine of There was a Lass, — and with 
whom the musician Clarke (who gave lessons 
to the young ladies) was in love. Phillis after- 
wards became Mrs. Norman Lockhart of .Carn- 
wath. 

Page IQ3, col. 2, line I. Var. 
Thy handsome foot thou shalt not set 
In burn or byre to trouble thee. MS. copy. 

Page IQ3, col. 2, line 21. Var. 
Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries. 

Page IQ4, line 2. This line originally stood, 
• If love it may nae be, oh ! ' 

Page IQ4, line 17. A song under this title 
appeared in Johnson's Museum in 1788, which 
is said to have been written by Burns. ' It is 
so rude and wretched a production,' says Mr. 
Chambers, ' that we cannot believe many words 
of it to have been supplied by so masterly a 
pen.' 

9J", 
was Miss Jessie Staig. 

■Page qs, line 17. Burns sent this song to 
Mr. Thomson in March, 1793, saying: ' I 
leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old Thro' the lang 
Muir be the best.' Thomson replied in April: 
' Your Here awa, Willie, must undergo altera- 
tions to suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have 
been conning it over; he will suggest what is ne- 
cessary to make them a fit match.' Some of these 
alterations Burns adopted. Allan Cunningham 
remarks that Mrs. Riddel was the heroine of the 
song, Mr. Chambers, with more probability, 
thinks it was written on Mrs. M'Lehose,who 






itfs2£>pMs 



^▼v^ 



NOTES. 



333 



V 



I 



was then in the West Indies, seeking a reunion 
with her husband. 

Page iqj, line 24. Var. 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. Erskine. 

Page IQ5, line 27. Var. 
Blow soft, ye breezes, blow gently, ye billows. 
Erskine. 

Page IQJ, line 30. Var. 
Flow still between us, thou dark-heaving main. 
Erskine. 

Page iqj, line 32. Var. 
While dying, I think that my Willie's my ain. 
Erskine. 

Page iqb, col. I, line 1. In August, 1793, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: 'I walked out 
yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum 
in my hand; when, turning up Allan Water, 
What numbers shall the mtise repeat, &c, as 
the words appeared to me rather unworthy of 
so fine an air, and recollecting that it is on your 
list, I sat and raved, under the shade of an old 
thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. I 
may be wrong, but I think it not in my worst 
style. . . . Bravo! say I, it is a good song. 
Should you think so too (not else), you can set 
the music to it, and let the other follow as Eng- 
lish verses. Autumn is my propitious season. 
I make more verses in it than in all the year 
else.' 

Page iqb, col. 1, li7ie 2. A mountain west of 
Strathallan, 3009 feet high. R. B. 

Page 197, line 1. Burns wrote Mr. Thom- 
son in August, 1793: 'That crinkum-crankum 
tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my head, and 
I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I 
have ventured, in this morning's walk, one essay 
more. You, my dear sir, will remember an un- 
fortunate part of our worthy friend Cunning- 
ham's story, which happened about three years 
ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured 
to do the idea justice as follows.' A lady with 
whom Cunningham was in love, had jilted him 
on the appearance of a richer lover. 

Page iqy, line 13. In August, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson: 'Is Whistle, and I'll 
come to you, my lad, one of your airs ? I ad- 
mire it much ; and yesterday I set the following 
verses to it.' In some of the MSS. the first four 
lines run thus: — 

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 

Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, 

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo. 

In 1795, Burns wrote to Johnson : ' In 
Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, the 
iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement: — 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 

Tho' father and mother and a' shall gae mad, 

Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

Page iqS, col. 1, line 1. In September, 1793, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: ' I have been 
turning over some volumes of songs, to find 



verses whose measures would suit the airs for 
which you have allotted me to find English 
songs. For Mttirland Willie, you have in 
Ramsay's Tea-table, an excellent song, begin- 
ning, Ah, why those tears hi Willie's eyes? 
As for the Collier's Dochter, take the following 
old bacchanal.' 

Page tq8, col. 1, line q. In a letter to 
Clarinda (supposed to be written about Febru- 
ary, 1790), Burns writes : 'The following song 
is one of my latest productions, and I send it 
to you, as I should do any thing else, because 
it pleases myself.' It has been conjectured that 
Mrs. M'Lehose was the heroine. 

Page iq8, col. I, line 17. In March, 1792, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Cunningham : ' Apropos, 
do you know the much-admired old Highland 
air called The Sutor's Dochter ? It is a first- 
rate favourite of mine, and I have written what 
I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send 
it to you as it was sung with great applause in 
some fashionable circles by Major Robertson, 
of Lude, who was here with his corps.' Allan 
Cunningham states that Wilt thou be my 
Dearie ? was said ' to have been composed in 
honour of Janet Miller of Dalswinton, mother 
of the present Earl of Mar, one of the most 
beautiful women of her time.' 

Page iqq, col./, line 1. In May, 1794, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: ' Now, for six or 
seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you 
shall see by and by. I know you value a com- 
position because it is made by one of the great 
ones, as little as I do. However, I got an air, 
pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth 
Heron, of Heron, which she calls The Banks 
of Cree. Cree is a beautiful romantic stream ; 
and as her ladyship is a particular friend of 
mine, I have written the following song to it.' 

Page iqq, col. 1, line q. Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson in 1794: 'The last evening, as I was 
straying out, and thinking of O'er the Hills 
and far away, I spun the following stanzas for 
it; but whether my spinning will deserve to be 
laid up in store, like the precious thread of the 
silkworm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile 
manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear sir, 
to your usual candid criticism. I was pleased 
with several lines in it at first, but I own that 
now it appears rather a flimsy business.' 

Page 200, col. 1, Hue 1. In September, 1794, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: ' I am flattered at 
your adopting Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes, 
as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. 
About seven years ago, I was acquainted with a 
worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, 
who sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. 
Clarke took it down from his singing. When I 
gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will not do 
for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, 
I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following 
up the idea of the chorus, which I would pre- 
serve. Here it is, with all its crudities and im- 








334 



NOTES. 




perfections on its head.' The copy published 
in Johnson's Museum is much inferior to the 
text. 

Page 200, col. 1, line 17. In sending this song 
to Mr. Thomson, November, 1794, Burns says: 
' This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded.' 
Page 200, col. 2, line 24. Var. 

And should the howling wintry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast 
And comfort thee, my dearie O. 
Page 201, col. 1, line 1. In September, 1794, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 'Do you know 
a blackguard Irish song, called Onagh's Water- 
fall ? The air is charming, and I have often 
regretted the want of decent verses on it. It is 
too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, 
to expect that every effort of hers shall have 
merit; still I think that it is better to have medi- 
ocre verses to a favourite air than none at all.' 

Page 201, col. 1, line 21. The heroine of this 
song was Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. Dr. 
Currie prints the following variation: — 
Now to the streaming fountain, 
Or up the heathy mountain, 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton 
stray; 
In twining hazel bowers 
His lay the linnet pours: 
The lav'rock to the sky 
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 
When frae my Chloris parted, 
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'er- 
cast my sky. 
But when she charms my sight 
In pride of beauty's light, 
When through my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart, 
'Tis then, 'tis then, I wake to life and joy. 

Page 202, col. I, li?ie 1. In sending this song 
to Mr. Thomson, 19th October, 1794, Burns 
writes : ' I met with some such words in a col- 
lection of songs somewhere, which I altered and 
enlarged: and to please you, and to suit your 
favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across 
my room, and have arranged it anew, as you 
will find on the other page.' 

Page 202, col. 1, line q. With reference to 
this song Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, 19th Octo- 
ber, 1794: 'I enclose you a musical curiosity, 
an East Indian air, which you would swear was 
a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as 
the gentleman who brought it over is a particu- 
lar acquaintance of mine. . . . Here follow the 
verses I intend for it.' 

Page 202, col. J, line 17. Burns sent the first 
draft of this song to Mr. Thomson in April, 1793. 
It was then addressed to Maria (supposed to be 



Mrs. Riddel). When he sent the version in the 
text to Mr. Thomson in November, 1794, he had 
made some inconsiderable alterations, and sub- 
stituted Eliza for Maria. 

Page 203, line 1. Burns wrote to Mr. Thom- 
son, November, 1794: 'Scottish bacchanalians 
we certainly want, though the few we have are 
excellent. . . . Apropos to bacchanalian songs 
in Scottish; I composed one yesterday for an 
air I like much, Lumps o' Pudding.' 

Page 203, line 17. Clarinda was the heroine 
of this song. Var. 
Now in her green mantle gay Nature arrays. 

Page 203, line lq. Var. 
And birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw. 

Page 203, Hue 21. Var. 
The primrose and daisy our glens may adorn. 

Page 203, line 23. Var. 
They torture my bosom sae sweetly they blaw. 

Page 203, line 24. Var. 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Page 203, line 2q. Var. 
Come Autumn sae pensive, in yellow array. 

Page 204, col. 1, line 1. The heroine of this 
song was Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. 

Page 204, col. 1, line q. In February, 1795, 
Burns wrote to Mr, Thomson: ' Here is another 
trial at your favourite air. ... I do not know 
whether it will do.' 

Page 205, line 1. In May, 1795, Burns wrote 
to Mr. Thomson: ' The Irish air, Htimours of 
Glen, is a great favourite of mine, and as, ex- 
cept the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are 
not any decent verses for it, I have written for 
it as follows.' 

Page 20J, line 5. Var. 
Far dearer to me are these humble broom 
bowers. 

Page 205, line b. Var. 
Where blue-bells and gowans lurk lowly unseen. 

Page 20J, line 17. Miss Lorimer of Craigie- 
burn was the heroine of this song. 

Page 205, line 25. Var. 
Jeanie, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 

Page 20b, col. 1, line q. This song is altered 
from an old English one. 

Page 20b, col. 1, line 17. On May 9, 1795, 
Burns concludes a letter to Mr. Thomson, con- 
taining this and the preceding song: 'Well! 
this is not amiss. You see how I answer your 
orders — your tailor could not be more punc- 
tual. I am just now in a high fit for poetising, 
provided that the strait-jacket of criticism 
don't cure me. If you can, in a post or two, 
administer a little of the intoxicating potion of 
your applause, it will raise your humble ser- 
vant's frenzy to any height you want. I am at 
this moment " holding high converse " with the 
Muses, and have not a word to throw away on 
such a prosaic dog as you are.' 

Page 207, col. 1, line /. The chorus of this 
song was originally written — 

' O this is no my ain Body, 
Kind though the Body be,' &c. 



NOTES. 



335 



Page 207, col. I, Hue 12. On August 3, 
1795, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: ' I en- 
close the sheet open, both for your inspection, 
and that you may copy the song, O Bonie was 
yon rosy Brier. I do not know whether I am 
right, but that song pleases me. . . . If you like 
the song, it may go as Scottish verses to the air 
of I wish my Love was in a Mire.' 

Page 208, Hue /S. In the original copy this 
line stood : — 
' He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess.' 

And on 3d June, 1795, Mr. Thomson wrote, 
objecting to the introduction of the word Gate- 
slack, and also to that of Dalgarnock in the 
verse which followed. On August 3 of the 
same year Burns replied: 'Gateslack, the word 
you object to, is the name of a particular place, 
a kind of passage up among the Lowther Hills, 
on the confines of this county. Dalgarnock is 
also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, 
where are still a ruined church and a burial 
ground. However, let the first run " He up 
the lang loan," &c.' 

Page 20Q, line 17. About May 17, 1796, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 'I once men- 
tioned to you an air which I have long admired 
— Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney, 
but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have 
just been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg 
leave to recommend the air to your attention 
once more. I have only begun it.' Jessie, the 
heroine of the song, was Miss Jessie Lewars, 
who acted as nurse daring the Poet's illness. 

Page 210, line 22. This song appears in the 
Museum with Burns' name attached. Mrs. 
Begg maintained that it was an old song which 
her brother brushed up and retouched. 

Page 211, col. I, Hue /. With reference to 
this song Burns asked Mr. Thomson: 'How 
do you like the foregoing? I have written it 
within this hour. So much for the speed of my 
Pegasus : but what say you to his bottom ? ' 

Page 211, col. 1, line 20. William, fourth 
viscount of Strathallan, fell at the battle of Cul- 
loden, while serving on the side of the rebels. 
In some MS. the first stanza runs as follows: — 
' Thickest night, surround my dwelling! 
Howling tempests, o'er me rave; 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Roaring by my lonely cave.' 

Page 211, col. 2, Hue 27. Var. 
Farewell, fleeting, fickle treasure, 

Between Misfortune and Folly shar'd! 
Farewell Peace, and farewell pleasure! 

Farewell, flattering man's regard! 
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er me, 

Nor dare a hope my fate attend; 
The wide world is all before me, 
But a world without a friend ! 

Page 212, col. 1, line 1. Burns composed 
this song while standing under the falls of Aber- 
feldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, September, 
1787. 



Page 212, col. 1, line 13. This was the last 
song composed by Burns. It was written at 
Brow, on the Solway Frith, a few days before 
his death. 

Page 212, col. 1, line iq. ' I composed these 
verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, 
alluding to her feelings on the death of her sis- 
ter, and the still more melancholy death of her 
sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who 
shot himself out of sheer heartbreak, at some 
mortifications he suffered, owing to the de- 
ranged state of his finances.' — B. 

Page 21s, col. 1, line I. ' I composed these 
verses out of compliment to a Mrs. Maclachlan, 
whose husband is an officer in the East Indies.' 
— B. 

Page 213, col. 1, line q. The heroine of this 
song was Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, 
who was an inmate of Ochtertyre House, when 
Burns was there on a visit. 

Page 213, col. 1, line 20. The heroine of 
this song was Miss Margaret Chalmers. 

Page 214, col. 1, line 1. This song was writ- 
ten in celebration 'of Miss Jenny Cruikshank, 
daughter of Mr. Cruikshank, of the High 
School, Edinburgh. 

Page 214, col. 1, li)te 13. This song was 
composed by Burns when he was about seven- 
teen years of age. The subject was a girl in 
his neighbourhood named Isabella Steven, or 
Stein. According to Allan Cunningham, ' Tib- 
bie was the daughter of a pensioner of Kyle — 
a man with three acres of peat moss — an in- 
heritance which she thought entitled her to treat 
a landless wooer with disdain.' 

Page 215, col. 1, line I. ' This song,' Burns 
writes in a note, ' I composed out of compliment 
to Mrs. Burns. N.B. — It was in the honey- 
moon.' 

Page 215, col. 1, line q. This song was also 
composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 
Corsincon is a hill at the head of Nithsdale, be- 
yond which Mrs. Burns lived before the poet 
brought her home to Ellisland. 

Page 215, col. I, line 21. ' Composed on the 
amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's 
leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfor- 
tunes obliged him to sell the estate.' — B. 

Page 21b, col. J, line 1. With regard to this 
song Burns writes : ' I composed it out of com- 
pliment to one of the happiest and worthiest 
married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, of 
Glenriddel, and his lady.' 

Page 216, col. 1 , line q. Burns writes con- 
cerning this song: 'The air is Masterton's, 
the song mine. The occasion of it was this: 
Mr. William Nicol, of the High School of Edin- 
burgh, during the Autumn vacation, being at 
Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a 
visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol 
a visit. We had such a joyous meeting, that 
Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own 
way, that we should celebrate the business.' 

Page 21b, col. 2, line iq. In many editions 





336 



NOTES. 



this line is printed, ' Wha last beside his chair 
shall fa'.' In Johnson's Museum it is given 
as in the text. It seems more in accordance 
with the splendid Bacchanalian frenzy, that he 
should be king who 
Rushed into the field and foremost fighting fell. 

Victory does not lie in stamina or endurance. 
For the moment intoxication is the primal good, 
and he is happiest who is first intoxicated. 

Page 218, col. i, line I. At Lochmaben 
Burns spent an evening at the Manse with the 
Rev. Andrew Jeffrey. His daughter Jean, a 
blue-eyed blonde of seventeen, presided at the 
tea-table. Next morning at breakfast the poet 
presented the young lady with the song. 

Page 2iQ, col. I, Hue i. Var. 

O weels me on my spinnin wheel. 

Page 2IQ, col. l, line 2. Var. 

O weels me on my rock and reel. 

Page 2iq, col. I, line 8. Var. 

O weels me on my spinnin wheel. 

Page 2iq, col. I, line 13. Var. 

Alike to shield the birdie's nest. 

Page 2IQ, col. 2, line 2. Var. 

And echoes con the doolfu' tale. 

Page 2iq, col. 2. line 8. Var. 

Rejoice me at my spinnin wheel. 

Page 21 q, col. 2, lifie 11. Var. 

O wha would change the humble state. 

Page 2ig, col. 2, Hues 13, 14. Var. 
Amang their flarin, idle toys, 
Amang their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 

Page 2iq, col. 1, line 17. In the original 
MS. the name of the heroine of this song was 
Rabina. 

Page 220, col. 1, line 17. ' Charming lovely 
Davies ' is the heroine of this song. 

Page 221, col. 1, line 1. Clarinda is sup- 
posed to be the subject of this song. 

Page 221, col. 1, line 15. This song ap- 
peared with Burns' name attached in Johnson's 
Museum. The simple and finer version which 
follows was sent to Mr. Ballantyne in 1787. 
' While here I sit,' Burns writes, ' sad and soli- 
tary, by the side of a fire in a little country inn, 
and drying my wet clothes.' 

Page 222, line 1. It will be noticed that this 
song is not distinguished by botanical correct- 
ness. Into the Posie Burns has gathered the 
flowers of spring, summer, and autumn. 

Page 222, line 2Q. According to Dr. Currie 
this song was composed in honour of Mrs. Stew- 
art, of Stair. Gilbert Burns thought the verses 
referred to Highland Mary. Afton is an Ayr- 
shire stream, and flows into the Nith, near New 
Cumnock. 

Page 223, line SI. This song was addressed 
to Clarinda. 

Page 223, line 23. Var. 
Dire was the parting thou bids me remember. 

Page 224, col. 1, line 1. Burns wrote to Mr. 
Thomson, September, 1793: 'The following 
song I have composed for Oran Gaoil, the 
Highland air that you tell me in your last, you 



have resolved to give a place to in your book. 
I have this moment finished the song; so you 
have it glowing from the mint. If it suits you, 
well ! if not, 'tis also well ! ' 

Page 225, col. 1, line q. The first four lines 
of this song are old. 

Page 225, col. 1, line 17. The foundation of 
this song was a short ditty, written, it is said, 
by one Lieutenant H inches, as a farewell to his 
sweetheart. 

Page 225, col. 1, lifie 25. Written in cele- 
bration of the personal and mental attractions 
of Miss Chalmers. 

Page 22b, col. 1, line 1. This song was com- 
posed in honour of Mrs. Oswald, of Auchin- 
cruive. 

Page 22b, col. 2, line 1. This song is sup- 
posed to connect itself with the attachment to 
Highland Mary, and the idea of emigration to 
the West Indies. 

Page 227, col. 1, line 17. ' I composed this 
song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, 
the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the 
author of the air, Straihallau's Lament.' — B. 

Page 227, col. 2, line 1. The chorus of the 
song is old. 

Page 227, col. 2, line 14. The first four lines 
of this song are old. 

Page 228, col. 1, line 11. Var. 

The tod was howling on the hill. 

Page 228, col. 1, line 13. Var. 

The burn adown its hazelly path. 

Page 228, col. 1, Hue 15. Var. 

To join yon river on the Strath. 

Page 228, col 2, line 5. Var. 

Now looking over firth and fauld 

Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd, 

When lo, in form of minstrel auld 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appeared. 

Page 22q, line 1. The first stanza of this 
song is taken from a stall ditty, entitled The 
Strong Walls of Derry. 

Page 22q, line 17. Concerning this song 
Burns writes : ' This air is claimed by Neil 
Gow, who calls it a La?nent for his brother. 
The first half stanza of the song is old, the rest 
is mine.' 

Page 230, col. 1, line 1. This is one of 
Burns' earliest productions. 

Page 230, col. 1, line q. These verses were 
inspired by Clarinda — the most beautiful and 
passionate strain to which that strange attach- 
ment gave birth. 

Page 230, col. 1, line 21. ' I composed this 
song,' Burns writes, ' pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a very particular ac- 
quaintance of mine, who was at that time under 
a cloud.' 

Page 231, col. I, line 1. Burns says, ' This 
tune is also known by the name of Lass, an' / 
come 7iear thee. The words are mine.' 

Page 231, col. I, line 13. ' This song,' Burns 
writes, ' is altered from a poem by Sir Robert 
Ayton, Private Secretary to Mary and Anne. 




NO TES. 



337 



Queens of Scotland. ... I think I have im- 
proved the simplicity of the sentiments by giv- 
ing them a Scots dress.' 

Page 231, col. 2, line 2S. Jean Armour is 
the ' Jean ' referred to. 

Page 232, line l. ' This song,' says Burns, 
' alludes to a part of my private history which it 
is of no consequence to the world to know.' 

Page 233, line 1. Burns wrote Mr. Thom- 
son, September, 1793: ' I have finished my song 
to Saw ye my Father, and in English, as you 
will see. That there is a syllable too much for 
the expression of the air, is true ; but allow me 
to say that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet 
into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great mat- 
ter; however, in that, I have no pretensions to 
cope in judgment with you. The old verses 
have merit, though unequal, and are popular; 
my advice is to set the air to the old words, and 
let mine follow as English verses. Here they 
are.' 

Page 233, line 21. ' These verses,' says 
Burns, ' were composed on a charming girl, 
Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married 
to James Mackittrick Adair, physician. She is 
sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of 
Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the 
Ayr.' 

Page 234, col. I, line iq. This song was 
written soon after Burns' visit to Gordon Castle 
in 1787. The variations are from a copy in the 
poet's handwriting. 

Page 234, col. I, line 22. Var. 

There immixed with foulest stains. 

Page 234, col. 1, line 23. Var. 

From Tyranny's empurpled hands. 

Page 234, col. 1, line 2j. Var. 

I leave the tyrants and their slaves. 

Page 234, col. 1, line 28. Var. 
Torrid forests, ever gay. 

Page 235, col. J, line 1. In September, 1793, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 'Blithe hae I 
been o'er the hill is one of the finest songs ever 
1 made in my life, and besides, is composed on 
a young lady, positively the most beautiful, 
lovely woman in the world.' The young lady 
was Miss Lesley Baillie. 

Page 235, col. 1, line q. Allan Cunningham 
states that Burns considered this to be the finest 
love-song he had ever composed — an opinion 
in which few readers will concur. 

Page 23s, col. 1, line 25. The first and 
second stanzas of this song are by Burns; the 
third and fourth are old. 

Page 23b, col. 1, line 1. Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson in August, 1793: 'Mr. Clarke begs 
you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, 
as she is a particular flame of his. She is a 
Miss Phillis M'Murdo, sister to " Bonie Jean." 
They are both pupils of his. You shall hear 
from me the very first grist 1 get from my rhym- 
ing-mill.' 

Page 23b, col. /, line iq. In November, 1794, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: 'On my visit the 



other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic 
name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration) , 
she suggested an idea, which I, on my return 
from the visit, wrought into the following song: 
how do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral? I think it pretty well.' 

Page 237, col. 1, line 1. In August, 1793, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 'That tune 
Cauld Kail is such a favourite of yours, that I 
once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin'- 
shot at the Muses : when the Muse that presides 
over the banks of the Nith, or rather my old in- 
spiring dearest nymph Coila, whispered me the 
following.' 

Page 237, col. 1, line q. In September, 1793, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: 'Fee him, Father. 
I enclose you Fraser's set of this tune when he 
plays it slow ; in fact, he makes it the language 
of despair. 1 shall here give you two stanzas in 
that style ; merely to try if it will be any im- 
provement. Were it possible in singing to give 
it half the pathos which Fraser gives it in play- 
ing, it would make an admirably pathetic song. 
I do not give these verses for any merit they 
have. I composed them at the time in which 
" Patie Allan's mither died — that was, about 
the back of midnight," and by the lee-side of a 
bowl of punch which had overset every mortal 
in company except the hautboys and the Muse.' 

Page 238, col. 1, line 1. On the 19th No- 
vember, 1794, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 
' Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss.' 

Page 238, col. 1, line 15. On the 19th Octo- 
ber, 1794, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: ' To 
descend to business; if you like my idea of 
When she cam ben she babbit, the following 
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they 
were formerly when set to another air, may 
perhaps do instead of worse stanzas.' 

Page 238, col. 2, line 1. In November, 1794, 
Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: 'You may think, 
meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast 
original, and you will be surprised that I have 
made so much of it.' 

Page 23q, col. 1, line 1. This is partly com- 
posed on the plan of an old song known by the 
same name. R. B. The ballad appeared in 
the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 240, col. 1, line 1. On 19th November, 
1794, Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: ' This morn- 
ing, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk 
before breakfast, I finished my duet, which you 
were pleased to praise so much. Whether I 
have uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but 
here it is for you, though it is not an hour old. 
Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out 
whatever you think faulty.' 

Page 240, col. 1, line 21. This song appeared 
in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 241, col. 1, line 1. On the 19th October, 
1794, Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: ' These Eng- 
lish songs gravel me to death. I have not the 





333 



NOTES. 



command of the language that I have of my 
native tongue. In fact, I think that my ideas 
are more barren in English than in Scotch. I 
have been at Duncan Gray, to dress it in Eng- 
lish, but all I can do is desperately stupid.' 

Page 241, col. 1, line q. This song appeared 
in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 241, col. i, line 2q. Var. 

Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows. 
First Edinburgh edition. Stinchar was ulti- 
mately changed to Lugar from considerations 
of euphony. 

Page 242, col. 1, li7ie 13. Composed in Au- 
gust. This song appeared in the Kilmarnock 
edition. 

Page 243, col. 1, line 1. This fragment ap- 
peared in the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 245, line q. This song was printed in 
the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 245, line 2q. Young's Night Thoughts. 
R. B. 

Page 24b, col. 1, line I. This song was 
printed in the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 24b, col. 1, line 15. In the autobio- 
graphical sketch forwarded to Dr. Moore, Burns 
writes: ' I had taken the last farewell of my few 
friends; my chest was on the road to Greenock, 
and I had composed the last song I should ever 
measure in Caledonia — 

The gloomy night is gathering fast; 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of 
mine overthrew all my schemes, by opening new 
prospects to my poetic ambition.' The song was 
printed in the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 247, col. 1, line I. The ' Farewell ' was 
printed in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 247, col. 2, line q. Mr. Chambers states 
that the grand master referred to in the text was 
Major-General James Montgomery; elsewhere 
the grand master is said to have been Sir John 
Whitefoord. 

Page 247, col. 1, line 17. In January, 1795, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 'A great critic 
(Aikin) on songs says, that love and wine are 
the exclusive themes for song writing. The 
following is on neither subject, and consequently 
is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be 
two or three pretty good prose thoughts con- 
verted into rhyme.' 

Page 248, col. 1, line s. Menie is the com- 
mon abbreviation of Marianne. R. B. This 
chorus is part of a song composed by a gentle- 
man in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the 
author's. R. B. This song appeared in the first 
Edinburgh edition. 

Page 24q, col. 1, line 21. Burns stated both 
to Mrs. Dunlop and Mr. Thomson, that Auld 
Lang Syne was old. It is, however, generally 
believed that he was the entire, or almost the 
entire, author. In Pickering's edition the fol- 
lowing variations are taken from a copy in the 
poet's handwriting. 

Page 24q, col. I, line 22. Var. 
And never thought upon. 



Page 24q, col. 1, line 23. Var. 

Let's hae a waught o' Malaga 
For auld lang syne. 

Page 24q, col. 1, line 25. Var. 
For auld lang syne, my jo: 

Page 24q, col. 1, line 27. Var. 

Let's hae a waught o' Malaga. 

Page 250. col. 1, line 1. Of this song Burns 
says: ' The title of the song only is old, the rest 
is mine.' In Johnson's Museum he published an 
early version, with the burden, ' The Gardener 
with his paidle.' 

Page 230, col. 1, line iq. In September, 1793, 
Burns sent this song to Mr. Thomson. ' There 
is,' he wrote, ' a tradition, which I have met with 
in many places of Scotland, that it' (the old air 
Hey tuttie taitie) ' was Robert Bruce's march 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought in 
my yesternight's evening walk warmed me to a 
pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and 
Independence, which I threw into a kind of 
Scotrish ode, fitted to the air, that one might 
suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's address to 
his heroic followers on that eventful morning. 
So may God ever defend the cause of truth and 
liberty as He did that day. Amen.' Mr. Thom- 
son wrote, suggesting alterations, and Burns 
replied: ' " Who shall decide when doctors dis- 
agree?" My ode pleases me so much that I 
cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations 
would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am 
exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on 
reconsidering it, as I think I have much im- 
proved it. ... I have scrutinised it over and 
over; and to the world, some way or other, it 
shall go as it is.' 

Page 251, col. j, line 1. Concerning this 
song Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, on the 14th 
November, 1792: 'The foregoing song pleases 
myself: I think it is in my happiest manner: 
you will see at first glance that it suits the air. 
The subject of the song is one of the most inter- 
esting passages of my youthful days ; and I own 
that I should be much flattered to see the verses 
set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Per- 
haps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of 
my heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over 
the merits of the composition.' 

Page 251, col. 1, line 17. This song, which 
became immensely popular at the time, was 
published in the Dumfries Journal, 5th May, 
1795- 

Page 252, col. 1, line 1. Gilbert Burns did 
not consider his brother the author of this song. 

Page 252, col. 2, line 33. Var. 

Sweet and harmless as a child. 

Page 253, col. I, line 17. This was written 
in an envelope to Mr. Cardonnel, the antiquary, 
enclosing a letter to Captain Grose. 

Page 254, col. 1, line 1. This was one of 
Burns' earliest compositions. 

Page 254, col. 2, line 20. This song appears 
in Johnson's Museum, without Burns' name. 

Page 255, col. 1, line 1. This ballad refers to 



NOTES. 



339 



the contest between Mr. Erskine and Mr. Dun- 
das, for the Deanship of the Faculty of Advo- 
cates. On the 12th January, 1796, Mr. Dundas 
was elected by a large majority. 

Page 255, col. 2, line 7. M'Pherson was a 
Highland freebooter, of great personal strength 
and musical taste and accomplishment. While 
lying in prison under sentence of death, he 
composed his Farewell, words and air, the for- 
mer of which began : — 

' I've spent my time in rioting, 

Debauched my health and strength; 
I squandered fast as pillage came, 
And fell to shame at length. 
But dantonly and wantonly, 
And rantonly I'll gae: 
I'll play a tune and dance it roun' 
Beneath the gallows' tree.' 
When brought to the gallows' foot at Banff, 
he played his Farewell, and then broke his 
violin across his knee. His sword is preserved 
at Duff House. 

Page 2jb, col. 1, line 1. Another version of 
this song is printed in ' Cromek's Reliques.' 
The text is from a copy in the poet's own hand- 
writing. 

Page 258, col. 1, line 1. In a copy of this 
song in the Poet's handwriting, the first stanza 
and chorus are thus given: — 

' There was a Birkie born in Kyle, 
But what na day o' what na style, 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be so nice with Davie. 
Leeze me on thy curly pow, 
Bonie Davie, daintie Davie; 
Leeze me on thy curly pow, 
Thou'se ay my daintie Davie.' 
Page 258, col. 1, line 10. Jan. 25th, 1759, 
the date of my hardship's vital existence. — 
R. B. 
Page 258, col. 2, line 3. Var. 

He'll gie his Daddie's name a blaw. 
Page 258, col. 2, line 10. Var. 

Ye'll gar the lassies lie aspar. 
Page 258, line lb fr. bottom. On the 12th 
March, 1791, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: 
' Lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrile- 
giously intrude on the office of my parish priest, 
I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition. . . . 
You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
/lame. When political combustion ceases to be 
the object of princes and patriots, it then, you 
know, becomes the lawful prey of historians 
and poets.' 

Page 2JQ, col. 1, line II. On 20th March, 
1793, Burns wrote Mr. Thomson: 'This song is 
one of my juvenile works. I do not think it 
very remarkable, either for its merits or de- 
merits.' 

Page 23Q, col. 1, line 23. Composed on the 
death of James Fergusson, Esq. Younger, of 
Craigdarroch. 



Page 260, col. I, line 15. Var. 

And ay I min't the witching smile. 

Page 2bo, col. 1, line 21. Var. 

Wha spied I but my ain dear lass. 

Page 2bo, col. 1, line 25. Var. 

Wi fremit voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 

Page 2bo, col. 2, line 2. Var. 

And lov'lier looked than ever. 

Page 2bo, col. 2, line 10. Var. 
Syne wallow't like a lily. 

Page 2bo, col. 2, line 11. Var. 

And sank within my arms, and cried. 

Page 2bo, col. 2, line iq. Var. 

Though wealth be sma, we're rich in love. 

Page 2bo, col. 2, line 21, Var. 

Quo she, my grandsire left me gear. 

Page 2bo, col. 2, line 23. Var. 

And come my ain dear soger lad. 

Page 2bo, col. I, lifie 33. ' Bonie Leslie ' 
was Miss Leslie Baillie, daughter of Mr. Baillie, 
of Ayrshire. Mr. Baillie, on his way to Eng- 
land with his two daughters, called on Burns at 
Dumfries. Burns mounted, accompanied them 
fifteen miles, and composed the song as he rode 
homewards. 

Page 2b2, line 1. Concerning this song 
Burns writes: 'The following song is a wild 
rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, 
but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of 
my heart, for that reason I have a particular 
pleasure in conning it over.' 

Page 2b3, col. 1, line 8. Jean Armour is the 
' Mauchline lady' referred to. 

Page 2b3, col. I, li7ie q. ' My Montgomerie's 
Peggy/ writes Burns, ' was my deity for six or 
eight months. ... A vanity of showing my 
parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at a 
billet-doux, which I always piqued myself upon, 
made me lay siege to her.' Burns, after he had 
warmed into a passion for Peggy, found that she 
was pre-engaged, and confessed that it cost him 
some heart-aches to get rid of the affair. 

Page 2b3, col. 2, line q. A song, in several 
stanzas similar to this, occurs in the Jolly Beg- 
gars. 

Page 265, col. 1, line 1. This song was writ- 
ten on one of the anniversaries of Highland 
Mary's death. 

Page 2bj, col. 1, line 13. Var. 
Eternity can not efface. 

Page 2b5, col. 2, line 11. Var. 
Time but the impression stronger makes. 

Page 2bj, col. 2, line 14. Var. 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest. 

Page 2bb, col. 1, li?ie 1. Burns chanted these 
verses on hearing some one express his joy at 
General Dumourier's defection from the ser- 
vice of the French Republic. 

Page 2bb, col. 2, line 1. Burns writes : ' The 
chorus of this song is old; the rest of it, such 
as it is, is mine.' 

Page 2bj, col. 1, line II. Charles James 
Fox. 

Page 2bj, col. 1, line iq. Thomas Erskine. 



L..:i!^>:'ii;nJ!^^;: ; i: 




^t/^TN^p*^^ 




340 



NOTES. 




Page 270, line 3. Var. 
The primroses blush in the dews of the morning. 

Page 270, line 7. Var. 
No birds sweetly singing, no flowers gaily 
springing. 

Page 270, line 12. Var. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter though I can 
find none. 

Page 270, line lb. Var. 

Alas! can I make you no better return. 

Page 273, col. 2, line 4. Var. 

Sae kend in martial story. 

Page 273, col. 2, line 22. Var. 

I'll breathe this exclamation. 

Page 274, col. 1, line 1. The ' Five Carlins,' 
represent the five boroughs of Dumfriesshire 
and Kirkcudbright, which were at the time con- 
tested by Patrick Miller of Dalswinton in the 
Whig, and Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, 
in the Tory interest. Dumfries, is ' Maggie on 
the Banks of Nith.' Annan, is ' Blinking Bess 
of Annandale.' Kirkcudbright, ' Whisky Jean 
of Galloway.' Sanquhar, ' Black Jean frae 
Crichton Peel,' and Lochmaben, 'Marjory o' 
the monie Lochs.' 

Page 274, col. 1, line 2Q. Sir James John- 
stone. 

Page 274, col. 2, line 5. Captain Miller of 
Dalswinton. 

Page 274, col. 2, line 21. King George III. 

Page 274, col. 2, line 24. The Prince of Wales. 

Page 27s, col. 1, line 13. Concerning this 
song Burns writes: ' The chorus I picked up 
from an old woman in Dunblane, the rest of the 
song is mine.' 

Page 27s, col. 1, line 25. Allan Cunning- 
ham mentions a report that Burns wrote these 
verses in humorous allusion to the condition in 
which Jean Armour found herself before mar- 
riage. 

Page 27b, col. 1, line 1. This song, founded 
on an old ballad, was printed in Johnson's 
Museum. 

Page 27b, col. 1, line 2Q. Another version of 
this song will be found on page 204. 

Page 277, col. 1, line 13. This is founded on 
an old song. 

Page 277, col. 1, line 21. This song was 
altered by Burns from a Jacobite ditty. 

Page 278, line 1. This is founded on an old 
song. 

Page 280, col. 1, line 1. Another version of 
this song will be found on p. 192. 

Page 282, col. 1, line 13. Of this song Burns 
writes: 'These were originally English verses 
— I gave them their Scots dress.' 

Page 283, col. 1, line 17. Of this song Burns 
writes : ' The chorus is old, the rest of it is mine.' 

Page 284, col. 1, line 17. Part only of this 
song is by Burns. 

Page 284, col. 2, line I. Part only of this 
song appears to have been written by Burns. 

Page 2S5, col. 1, line 1. This is founded on 
an old ballad. 



Page 28b, col. 1, line 25. It is doubted 
whether Burns was the author of this song. 

Page 28b, col. 2, line iq. ' The last stanza of 
this song,' Burns writes, ' is mine. It was com- 
posed out of compliment to one of the worthiest 
fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq. 
W. S. Edinburgh, and colonel of the Crochallan 
Corps, a club of wits who took that title at the 
time of raising the fencible regiments.' 

Page 287, col. 1, line 33. The foundation of 
this song is old. 

Page 287, col. 2, line 21. The first four lines 
of this song are old. 

Page 288, line 25. The second verse of this 
song is by Burns. 

Page 2qo, col. 1, line 1. Concerning this 
ballad Gilbert Burns says: 'When Mr. Cun- 
ninghame of Enterkin came to his estate, two 
mansion houses on it, Enterkin and Anbank, 
were both in a ruinous state. Wishing to intro- 
duce himself with some eclat to the county, he 
got temporary erections made on the banks of 
Ayr, tastefully decorated with shrubs and flow- 
ers, for a supper and ball, to which most of the 
respectable families in the county were invited. 
It was a novelty, and attracted much notice. A 
dissolution of Parliament was soon expected, 
and this festivity was thought to be an introduc- 
tion to a canvass for representing the county. 
Several other candidates were spoken of, par- 
ticularly Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at 
Cloncaird (commonly pronounced Glencaird), 
and Mr. Boswell the well-known biographer of 
Dr. Johnson. The political views of the festive 
assemblage, which are alluded to in the ballad, 
if they ever existed, were, however, laid aside, 
as Mr. Cunninghame did not canvass the county.' 

Page 2Q2, col. 1, line 1. The last two verses 
of this song are by Burns. 

Page 2Q4, line 1. This song is founded on 
an old ballad. 

Page 2Q5, line 21. Burns says the second 
and fourth stanzas of this song were written by 
him. 

Page 2Q7, col. 1, line 1. The ' Heron Bal- 
lads ' were written on the occasion of the Stew- 
artry of Kirkcudbright being contested, in 1795, 
by Mr. Heron of Kerroughtree in the Whig, 
and Mr. Gordon of Balmaghie, in the Tory in- 
terest. 

Page 2Q7, col. 2, line 31. Var. 

For now what he wan in the Indies 
Has scoured up the laddie fu' clean. 

Page 301, line 1. This song was produced 
at a festive meeting of the Kilmarnock Masonic 
Lodge, presided over by Mr. William Parker. 

Page 303, line 1. Gilbert Burns was of 
opinion that his brother did not write this song. 

Page 30b, col. 1, line 1. Burns states con- 
cerning this song: ' I added the four last lines 
by way of giving a turn to the theme of the 
poem, such as it is.' 

Page 307, col. 1, line 1. The text has been 
collated with a copy in the Poet's handwriting. 



>)HR 




GLOSSARY. 



A, all. 

Aback, away from. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Abusin', abusing. 

Acquent, acquainted. 

A'-day, all day. 

A die, putrid water. 

Advisement, advice. 

Ae, one, only. 

Aff, off. 

Aff-hand, at once. 

Aff loof, extemporaneously. 

Afore, before. 

Aften, often. 

A-gley, off the right line. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Aik, an oak, Aiken, oaken. 

Ain, own. 

Air, early. 

Airl-penny, earnest money. Aides, earnest 

money. 
Aim, iron. Aims, irons. 
Airt, direction, the point from which the wind 

blows; to direct. Airted, directed. 
Aith, an oath. Aiths, oaths. 
Aits, oats. 
Aiver, an old horse. 
Aizle, a hot cinder. 
Ajee, to the one side. 
Alake ! alas! 
Alang, along. 
Amaist, almost. 
Amang, among. 
An', and. An's, and is. 
Ance, once. 

Ane, one. Anes, ones. 
Anither, another. 
Artfu', artful. 
Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, obliquely, aslant. 
Asteer, astir. 
A'thegither, altogether. 
Athort, athwart. 
Atween, between. 

Aught, eight. Aughteen, eighteen. 
Aughtlins, any thing, in the least. 



Auld, old. Auld's, as old as. Aulder, 

older. 
Auldfarran, sagacious. 
Aumous, alms. 
Ava, at all. 
Awa, away. 
Awe, to owe. 
Awee, a little time. 
Awfu', awful. 
Awkart, awkward. 
Awnie, bearded. 
Ay, always. 
Ayont, beyond. 

Ba\ a ball. 

Babie-clouts, baby-clothes. 

Backets, buckets. 

Bade, endured, desired. 

Baggie (dim. of dag-), the stomach. 

Bainie, bony, muscular. 

Bairns, children. 

Bairntime, a family of children. 

Baith, both. 

Bakes, biscuits. 

Ballats, ballads. 

Ban', band. 

Banes, bones. 

Bang, a stroke. An unco bang, a heavy 

stroke or effort. 
Bannet, a bonnet. 
Bannock, a cake of oatmeal bread. 
Bardie, dim. oibard. 
Barefit, barefooted. 
Barkit, barked. Barkin, barking. 
Barm, yeast. Barmie, of, or like barm. 
Batch, a party. 
Batts, the botts. 
Bauckie-bird, the bat. 
Baudrons, a cat. 
Bauks, cross-beams. Bauk-en', end of a 

bauk or cross-beam. 
Bauld, bold. Bauldly, boldly. 
Baumy, balmy. 
Bawk, an open space in a cornfield, generally 

a ridge left untilled. 
Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the face. 
Bawtie, a familiar name for a dog. 
Be't, be it. 
Bear, barely. 

341 





342 



GLOSSARY. 



Beas, vermin. 

Beastie, dim. of beast. 

Beets, adds fuel to fire. 

Befa', befall. 

Behint, behind. 

Belang, belong to. Belang'd, belonged to. 

Beld, bald. 

Bellum, a noise, an attack. 

Bellyfu', bellyful. 

Belyve, by and by. 

Ben, into the spence or parlor. Benmost 

bore, the innermost recess, or hole. 
Bethankit, the grace after meat. 
Beuk, a book. Devil's pictur' d beuks, cards. 
Bicker, a wooden dish, a few steps unwittingly. 
Bid, to wish, or ask. 
Bide, to stand, to endure. 
Biel, a habitation. Bield, shelter. 
Bien, plentiful, comfortably. 
Big, to build. Bigg, to build. Bigs, builds. 

Biggin, building. 
Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a good fellow. Billies, young fellows. 
Bings, heaps of any thing, such as turnips, 

potatoes. 
Birdies, dim. oibird. 
Birk, the birch. Birks, birches. Birken, 

birchen. Birken shaw, a small birch wood. 
Birkie, a spirited fellow. 
Birring, whirring. 
Birses, bristles. 
Bit, crisis. 

Bizzard gled, a kite. 
Bizz, a bustle. Bizzes, buzzes. 
Bizzy, busy. Bizzie, busy. 
Bizzies, buzzes. 
Black Bonnet, the elder. 
Blae, blue, sharp, keen. 
Blastie, a term of contempt. 
Blastit, blasted, withered. 
Blate, shamefaced. 
Blather, bladder. 

Blaud, to slap; a quantity of any thing. 
Blaudin', pelting. 

Blaw, to blow, to brag. Blaws, blows. 
Blawn, blown. Blawn't, had blown it. 
Bleatin, bleating. 
Bleerit, bleared. Bleer't, bleared. 
Bleeze, a blaze. Bleezin, blazing. 
Blellum, an idle talking fellow. 
Blether, the bladder, nonsense. Blethers, 

nonsense. 
Bleth'rin, talking idly. 

Blin', blind. Blins, blinds. Blin't, blinded. 
Blink, a blink o' rest, a short period of re- 
pose, a short time, a moment, a look. 
Blinks, looks smilingly. 
Blinkers, a term of contempt, pretty girls. 
Blinkin, smirking. 
Blirtand bleary, fits of crying. 
Blitter, the mire snipe. 
Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get 

annually on the king's birthday, a blue cloak 

or gown with a badge. 



Blude, blood. Bluid, blood. 

Bludie, bloody. Bluidy, bloody. 

Blume, bloom. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 

Blypes, large pieces. 

Bocked, vomited. 

Boddle, a small coin. 

Boggie, dim. oibog. 

Bogles, ghosts. 

Bonie, beautiful. 

Bonnocks, thick cakes of oatmeal bread. 

Boord, board. 

Boortrees, elder shrubs. 

Boost, must needs. 

Bore, a hole or rent. 

Bouk, a corpse. 

Bouses, drinks. 

Bow-hough'd, crook thighed. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bow't, crooked. 

Brae, the slope of a hill. 

Braid, broad. Braid Scots, broad Scotch. 

Braid-claith, broad cloth. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Braing't, reeled forward. 

Brak, did break. Brak's, broke his. 

Brankie, well attired. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. 
Brany, brandy. 
Brash, sickness. 
Brats, rags. 
Brattle, a short race. 
Braw, handsome. 
Brawly, perfectly. 
Braxies, morbid sheep. 
Breastie, dim. of breast. 
Breastit, did spring up or forward. 
Brechan, a horse-collar. 
Breckan, fern. 
Bree, juice, liquid. 
Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, straight, smooth, unwrinkled. 
Brewin, brewing. 
Brie, juice. 
Brief, a writing. 
Brig, bridge. 

Brither, brother. Brithers, brothers. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a trick. 
Broo, water, broth. 

Brooses, races at country weddings who shall 
first reach the bridegroom's house on return- 
ing from church. 
Browst, as much malt liquor as is brewed at a 

time. 
Brow.ster-wives, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, burgh. Brughs, boroughs. 
Brulzie, a broil. 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Brunt, burned. 
Brust, burst. 
Buckie, dim. oibuck. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Buff, to beat. 




GLOSSARY. 



343 



Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the sheep 

in the pens to be milked. 
Buirdly, strong, imposing-looking, well-knit. 
Buke, book. 
Bum, to hum. 
Bum-clock, a beetle. 
Bumming, making a noise like a bee. 
Bummle, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a chest. 
Burdies, damsels. 
Bure, bore, did bear. 
Burns, streams. Burnie, dim. of burn. 
Burnewin (i.e. burn the wind), a blacksmith. 
Bur-thistle, the spear-thistle. 
Busking, dressing, decorating. Buskit, 

dressed. Busks, adorns. 
Buss, a bush. 
Bussle, a bustle. 
But, without. 

But an' ben, kitchen and parlor. 
By, past, apart. 

By attour, in the neighborhood outside. 
Byke, a multitude, a bee-hive. 

Ca\ to drive, a call. Ca'd, named, driven. 

Ca's, calls. Ca't, called. Ca' throu', to 

push forward. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
Cadie, a fellow. 
Caff, chaff. 
Cairds, tinkers. 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 
Callans, boys. 
Caller, fresh. 
Callet, a trull. 
Cam, came. 

Cankert, cankered. Cankrie, cankered. 
Canna, cannot. 
Cannie, carefully, softly. 
Cannilie, dexterously. 
Cantie, in high spirits. 
Cantin', canting. 
Cantrip, a charm, a spell. 
Cape-stane, cope-stone. 
Cap'rin, capering. 
Careerin, cheerfully. 
Carl, a carle. Carlie, dim of carle. 
Carlin, an old woman. 
Cartes, cards. 
Cartie, dim. olcart. 
Caudrons, cauldrons. 
Cauf , a calf. 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 
Cauld, cold. Caulder, colder. 
Caups, wooden drinking vessels. 
Causey, causeway. 
Cavey, a hen-coop. 
Chamer, chamber. 
Change-house, a tavern. 
Chap, a fellow. 
Chapman, a peddler. 
Chaup, a blow. 

Cheek for chow, cheek by jowl. 
Cheep, chirp. 



Cheerfu', cheerful. 

Chiels, young fellows. 

Chimla, chimney. Chimlie, chimney. 

Chittering, trembling with cold. 

Chows, chews. 

Chuckie, dim. oi chuck. 

Christendie, Christendom. 

Chuffie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a hamlet. 

Claise, clothes. Claith, cloth. Claith'd, 

clothed. Claithing, clothing. 
Clamb, clomb. 
Clankie, a sharp stroke. 
Clap, a clapper. 
Clark, clerkly, pertaining to erudition Clarkit, 

wrote. 
Clarty, dirty. 
Clash, idle talk, to talk. 
Clatter, to talk idly. Kintra clatter, the 

talk of the country. 
Claught, caught. Claughtin, catching at 

any thing greedily. 
Claut, to snatch at, to lay hold of; a quantity 

scraped together by niggardliness. 
Clauted, scraped. 
Claver, clover. 
Clavers, idle stories. 
Claw, scratch. 
Clean, handsome. 
Cleckin, a brood. 

Cleed, to clothe, deeding, clothing. 
Cleek, to seize. Cleekit, linked themselves. 
Clegs, gad-flies. 
Clink, to rhyme; money. 
Clinkin, sitting down suddenly. 
Clinkumbell, the church bell-ringer. 
Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 
Clockin-time, hatching-time. 
Cloot, the hoof. 
Clootie, Satan. 

Clours, bumps or swellings after a blow. 
Clouts, clothes. Clout, to patch, a patch. 
Clud, a cloud. Cluds, multitudes. 
Clue, a portion of cloth or yarn. 
Clunk, the sound emitted by liquor when 

shaken in a cask or bottle, when the cask or 

bottle is half empty. 
Coatie, dim. of coat. 
Coaxin, coaxing. 
Coble, a fishing-boat. 
Cock, to erect. Cocks, good fellows. Cockie, 

dim. oi cock, a good fellow. 
Cod, a pillow. 
Co'er, to cover. 
Coft, bought. 

Cog, a wooden dish. Coggie, dim of cog. 
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire, so 

called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coila, a 

Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a country dog. 
Collieshangie, an uproar, a quarrel. 
Commans, commandments. 
Comin', coming. 



. 



iii&aiife 




344 



GLOSSARY. 




Compleenin, complaining. 

Converse, conversation. 

Cood, the cud. 

Coofs, fools, ninnies. 

Cookit, that appeared and disappeared by fits. 

Coost, did cast. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish. Fowls whose 
legs are clad with feathers are also said to be 
cootie. 

Corbies, crows. 

Corn't, fed with oats. 

Corss, the market-place. 

Couldna, could not. 

Counted, considered. 

Countra, country. 

Couthie, kindly, loving. 

Cowe, to terrify. Cowe the cadie, terrify 
the fellow; to lop, a fright. 

Cowp the cran, to tumble over. 

Cowpit, tumbled. Cowpet, tumbled. 

Cow'rin, cowering. 

Cowr, to cower. Cour, to cower. 

Cowt, a colt. Cowte, a colt. 

Cozie, cosey. 

Crabbit, crabbed. 

Crack, a story or harangue, talk. 

Crackin, conversing, gossiping. 

Craft, a croft. 

Craft rig, a croft ridge. 

Craig, the throat. Craigie, dim. of craig, the 
throat. 

Craigs, crags. Craigy, craggy. 

Craiks, landrails. 

Crambo-clink, rhymes. 

Crambo-jingle, rhymes. 

Crankous, irritated. 

Cranreuch, hoar frost. 

Crap, to crop. Craps, crops. 

Craw, to crow. 

Creel, my senses wad be in a creel, to be 
crazed, to be fascinated. 

Creepie-chair, the chair or stool of repentance. 

Creeshie, greasy. 

Crocks, old sheep. 

Croods, coos. Crooded, cooed. 

Cronie, a comrade. 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan. 

Crouchie, crook-backed. 

Crouse, gleefully, with spirit. 

Crowdie, porridge. Crowdie-time, break- 
fast-time. 

Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a staff with a crooked head. 

Crump, crisp. 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 

Cuddle, to fondle. 

Cuif s, blockheads, ninnies. 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. 

Cunnin, cunning. 

Curch, a female headdress. 

Curchie, a courtesy. 

Curmurring, a rumbling noise. 

Curpin, the crupper. Curple, the crupper. 

Cushats, wood-pigeons. 



Custock, the centre of a stem of cabbage. 
Cutty, short, bob-tailed. 
Cut, fashion, shape. 

Daddie, father. 

Daez't, stupefied. 

Damn, merriment. 

Daft, foolish. 

Dails, deals of wood for sitting on. 

Daimen-icker, an ear of corn now and then. 

Daisie, the daisy. 

Damies, dim. of dames. 

Dam, water. 

Danton, to subdue. 

Dang, knocked, pushed. 

Dappl't, dappled. 

Darin, daring. 

Darklins, darkling. 

Darlin, darling. 

Daud, to pelt. Daudin', pelting. 

Dauntingly, dauntlessly. 

Daur, to dare. Daur't, dared. Daur na, 
dare not. 

Daut, to fondle, to make of. Dawte, to fon- 
dle. Dawted, fondled, caressed. 

Daurk, a day's labor. 

Daviely, spiritless. 

Davie's, King David's. 

Daw, dawn. Dawin, the dawning. 

Dawds, lumps, large pieces. 

Dead-sweer, but little inclined. 

Deave, to deafen. 

Deils, devils. Deil ma care, devil may care. 
Deil haet, devil a thing. 

Deleerit, delirious. 

Delvin, delving. 

Descrive, to describe. 

Deservin, deserving. Deservint, deserving 
of it. 

Deuk, a duck. 

Devel, a stunning blow. 

Dictionar, a dictionary. 

Diddle, to strike or jog. 

Differ, difference. 

Dight, cleaned from chaff; to wipe away. 

Din, dun in color. 

Dine, dinner-time. 

Ding, to surpass, be pushed or upset. Dings, 
knocks. 

Dink, neat, trim. 

Dinna, do not. 

Dinner'd, dined. 

Dirl, a vibrating blow; to vibrate. Dirl'd, 
executed with spirit. 

Disagreet, disagreed. 

Dizzen, a dozen. 

Dizzie, dizzy. 

Dochter, daughter. 

Doin', doing. 

Doited, stupefied. 

Donsie, unlucky. 

Dooked, ducked. 

Dools, sorrows. Doolfu', sorrowful 

Doos, pigeons. 







GLOSSARY. 



345 



Dorty, supercilious, huffy. 

Douce, grave, sober. Doucely, soberly. 

Douser, more decorous. 

Doudled, dandled. 

Bought, could, might. Dought na, did not, 

or did not choose to. 
Doup, the backside. 
Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 
Dour, stubborn. Doure, stubborn. 
Dow, do, can. Dowe, do, can. 
Dowff , pithless, silly. 
Dowie, low-spirited. 
Downa bide, cannot stand. Downa do, a 

phrase signifying impotence. 
Doylt, stupid. 
Doytin, walking stupidly. 
Dozen'd, impotent, torpid. Dozin, stupefied, 

impotent. 
Draiglet, draggled. 
Drants, sour humors. 
Drap, drop, a small quantity. Drappie, dim. 

oidrap. Drapping, dropping. 
Draunting, drawling, of a slow enunciation. 
Draw't, draw it. 
Dree, to endure. 
Dreeping, dripping. 
Dreigh, tedious. 
Dribble, drizzle. 
Driddle, to play, to move slowly. 
Drift, a drove. Fell aff the drift, wandered 

from his companions. 
Droddum, the breech. 
Drone, the bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpl't, that droops at the crupper. 
Drouk, to moisten. Droukit, wet, drenched. 
Drouth, thirst. Drouthy, thirsty. 
Druken, drunken. 
Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed raw. 
Drunt, pet, sour humor. 
Dry, thirsty. 
Dubs, small ponds. 
Duds, garments. Duddie, ragged. Duddies, 

garments. 
Dung, knocked. 
Dunted, beat, thumped. 

knocks. 
Durk, a dirk. 

Dusht, pushed by a ram or ox. 
Dwalling, dwelling. Dwalt, dwelt. 
Dyvors, bankrupts, disreputable fellows. 

Earns, eagles. 

Eastlin, eastern. 

Ee, eye, to watch. Een, eyes. 

E'e brie, the eyebrow. 

E'en, evening. E'enins, evenings. 

Eerie, scared, dreading spirits. 

Eild, age. 

Eke, also. 

Elbucks, elbows. 

Eldritch, frightful. 

Eleckit, elected. 

Eller, an elder. 



Dunts, blows, 



En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. Em'brugh, Edin- 
burgh. 
Enow, enough. 
Ensuin, ensuing. 
Erse, Gaelic. 
Especial, especially. 
Ether-stane, adder-stone. 
Ettle, design. 

Expeckit, expected. Expec', expect. 
Eydent, diligent. 

Fa', lot. Fa, fall. 

Face't, faced. 

Faddom't, fathomed. 

Fae, foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faikit, baited. 

Failins, failings. 

Fair-fa, a benediction. 

Fairin, a present, a reward. 

Fairly, entirely, completely. 

Fallow, a fellow. 

Fa'n, have fallen. 

Fan', found. Fand, found. 

Farls, cakes of oat bread. 

Fash, trouble myself. Fash your thumb, 
trouble yourself in the least. Fash't, trou- 
bled. Fashous, troublesome. 

Fasten-een, Fasten's-even. 

Fatt'rels, ribbon-ends. 

Faught, a fight. 

Fauld, a fold. 

Faulding, folding. Faulding slap, the gate 
of the fold. 

Fause, false. 

Faut, fault. Faute, fault. Fautor, a trans- 
gressor. 

Fawn, fallen. 

Fawsont, seemly. 

Fearfu', fearful. 

Feat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fight. Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, the greater portion. Feckly, mostly. 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves. 

Feckless, powerless, without pith. 

Feg, a fig. 

Feide, feud. 

Feirie, clever. 

Fell, the flesh immediately under the skin; 
keen, biting, nippy, tasty. 

Fen, a successful struggle, a shift. 

Fend, to keep off, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, to wonder, a term of contempt. 

Fetch't, pulled intermittently. 

Fey, predestined. 

Fidge, to fidget. Fidgin-fain, fidgeting with 
eagerness. 

Fiel, soft, smooth. 

Fient, a petty oath. The fient a, the devil a 
bit of. 

Fier, healthy, sound, brother, friend. Fiere, 
friend, comrade. 

Fillie.afilly. 






346 



GLOSSARY. 




Fin', find. 

Fissle, to fidget. 

Fit, foot. 

Fittie-lan', the near horse of the hindmost 
pair in the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fermentation. 

Flaffan, flapping, fluttering. 

Flae, a flea. 

Flang, did fling or caper. 

Flannen, flannel. 

Flarin, flaring. 

Flatt'rin, flattering. 

Fleech'd, supplicated. Fleechin, supplicat- 
ing. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random stroke, a sudden motion. 

Fleth'rin, flattering. 

Flewit. a sharp blow. 

Fley'd, scared. 

Flichterin, fluttering. 

Flie, a fly. 

Flinders, shreds. 

Flinging, capering. 

Flingin-tree, a flail. 

Fliskit, fretted. 

Flit, remove. 

Flittering, fluttering. 

Flyte, to scold. 

Fodgel, squat or plump. 

Foord, a ford. Foor, to fare. 

Foorsday, late in the afternoon. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, worn-out, jaded. 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to make acquaintance with. For- 
gather'd, met. 

Forgie, forgive. 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 

Forrit, forward. 

For't, for it. 

Fother, fodder. 

Fou, full, tipsy; a bushel. 

Foughten, troubled. 

Fouth, an abundance. 

Frae, from. 

Frammit, estranged. 

Freath, to froth. 

Fremit, strange, foreign. 

Frien', friend. 

Fright, a person or thing of an extraordinary 
aspect. 

Fu\ full. 

Fud, the scut of the hare. 

Fuff 't, did blow. 

Fumbling, awkward. 

Furs, furrows. 

Furr-ahin, the hindmost horse in the right 
hand of the plough. 

Furder, furtherance. 

Furms, wooden forms or seats. 

Furnicator, fornicator. 

Fushionless, pithless. 

Fy, an exclamation of haste. 



Fyke, to be in a fuss about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil or dirty. Fyl'd, dirtied. 

Gad, to speak fluently, the mouth. 

Gabs, tongues. 

Gae, go, gave. 

Gaed, walked, went. 

Gaets, manners. 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth inserted at the 

bottom of a shift or robe. 
Gane, gone. Gaen, gone. 
Gang, to go. 
Gangrel, vagrant. 
Gapin, gaping. 
Gar, to make. Gar't, made. 
Garten, garter. 
Gash, sagacious. 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gat, got. 

Gate, manner, way or road. 
Gatty, gouty. 

Gaucie, comfortable looking. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 
Gaud, the plough shaft. Gaudsman, a 

plough-boy, the boy who drives the horses in 

the plough. 
Gaun, going. 
Gaunted, yawned. 
Gawkies, foolish persons. 
Gaylies, pretty well. 
Gear, wealth, goods. Weel hained gear, 

well saved, drink. 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or scorn. 
Geds, pike. 
Gentles, great folks. 
Genty, slender. 
Geordie, George. The yellow lettered 

Geordie, a guinea. 
Get, offspring. 
Ghaists, ghosts. 
Gie, give. Gien, given. Gies, give us. 

Gied, gave. Gi'en, given. 
Gif , if. 

Giftie, dim. of gift. 
Giglets, playful children. 
Gillie, dim. of gill. 
Gilpey, a young girl. 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 
Gin, if. 
Gipsie, gipsy. 
Girdle, a circular plate of iron for toasting 

cakes on the fire. 
Girn, to grin. 
Girrs, hoops. 
Gizz, a wig. 
Glaikit, thoughtless. 
Glaizie, glittering. 
Glamor, glamour. 
Glaum'd, grasped. 
Gled, a kite. 
Gleed, a live coal. 
Gleg, sharp, cleverly, swiftly. 
Gleib, a glebe. 
Glib-gabbet, that speaks smoothly and readily 




GLOSSARY. 



347 



Glinted, glanced. Glintin, glancing. 

Gloamin, twilight. Gloamin-shot, a twi- 
light interview. 

Glowr'd, looked earnestly, stared. Glowran, 
staring. 

Glunch, a frown. 

Gotten, got. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange inquir- 
ing gaze, staring stupidly. 

Gowan, the daisy. Gowany, daisied. 

Gowd, gold. Gowden, golden. 

Gowfi'd, knocked hither and thither. 

Gowk, a foolish person. 

Gowling, howling. 

Granes, groans. Grained, grinned. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning 
stables. 

Graith, harness, field implements, accoutre- 
ments. 

Graff, a grave. 

Graunie, grandmother. 

Grabe, to grope. Graped, groped. Grapit, 
groped. 

Grat, wept. 

Gratefu', grateful. 

Gree, a prize, to agree. Gree't, agreed. 

Greet, to weep. Greetin, weeping. 

Griens, covets, longs for. 

Grievin, grieving. 

Grippet, gripped, caught hold of. 

Grissle, gristle. 

Grit, great. 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Grumphie, the sow. 

Grim', the ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the countenance, a grunting noise. 

Grunzie, the mouth. 

Grushie, thick, of thriving growth. 

Grusome, ill favoured. 

Grutten, wept. 

Gude, the Supreme Being, good. Gudeman, 
goodman. Gudes, goods, merchandise. 
Guid, good. 

Guid-morning, good morning. 

Guid-e'en, good even. Gudeen, good even. 

Guid-wife, the mistress of the house; the land- 
lady. 

Guid-father, father-in-law. 

Gully, a large knife. 

Gulravage, riot. 

Gumlie, muddy, discolored. 

Gumption, understanding. 

Gusty, tasteful. 

Gutcher, grandfather. 



Ha', hall. Ha'folk, servants. Ha' Bible, 

hall-Bible. 
Haddin, holding, inheritance. 
Hae, have, here (in the sense of take). 
Haet, the least thing. Deil haet, an oath of 

negation. Damn'd haet, nothing. 
Haff, the half. Ha'f, the half. 



Haffets, the temples. Haffet locks, locks at 

the temples. 
Hafflins, partly. Hafflins-wise, almost half. 
Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses and moors. 
Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the stomach 

of a cow or sheep. 
Hain, to spare, to save. Hain'd, spared. 
Hairst, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 
Haivers.idle talk. 
Hal', hall. 

Hald, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, entire. Hale breeks, breeches 

without holes, uninjured. 
Haly, holy. 

Hallan, a particular partition wall in a cottage. 
Hallions, clowns, common fellows. 
Hallowmas, the thirty-first of October. 
Hame, home. Hamely, homely. 
Han', hand. Hand-breed, a hand-breadth. 
Han' afore, the foremost horse on the left hand 

in the plough. 
Han' ahin, the hindmost horse on the left hand 

in the plough. 
Hand-waled, carefully chosen by hand. 
Handless, without hands, useless, awkward. 
Han't, handed. 
Hangit, hanged. 

Hansel, hansel throne, a throne newly in- 
herited, a gift for a particular season, or the 

first money on any particular occasion. 
Hap, to wrap. Winter hap, winter clothing. 
Hap, hop. 

Ha'pence, half-pence. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping. 
Hap-step-an'-lowp, hop, step, and jump, 

with a light airy step. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Har'sts, harvests. 
Ham, yarn. 
Hash, a soft useless fellow. Hash'd, did smite, 

did disfigure. 
Haslock, descriptive of the finest wool, being 

the lock that grows on the hals or throat. 
Has't, has it. 
Hastit, hasted. 

Haud, to hold, would keep. Hauds, holds. 
Hauf, the half. 

Haughs, low-lying lands, meadows. 
Hauns, hands, as applied to workmen, persons. 
Haurl, to drag. Haurls, drags. 
Haurlin, peeling, dragging off. 
Hauver, oatmeal. 
Hav'rel, half-witted. 
Havins, good manners. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white face. 
Heapet, heaped. Heepit, heaped. 
Healsome, wholesome. 
Hearin', hearing. Hear't, hear it. 
Heartie, dim. of heart. 
Hearse, hoarse. 

Hech, an exclamation of wonder. 
Hecht, foretold, offered. 









v-^V^^W^" 



GLOSSARY. 




Hechtin', making to pant. 

Heckle, a board in which are fixed a number 

of sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, flax, &c. 
Hee balou, a term used by nurses when lulling 

children. 
Heels-o'er-gowdy, head over heels. 
Heeze, to elevate, to hoist. 
Heft, haft. 

Hein shinn'd, in-shinned. 
Hellim, the helm. 
Hen-broo, hen broth. 
Herrin, herring. 
Herriet, harried. 

Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself. 

Het, hot. Gie him't het, give him it hot. 
Heugh, a coal pit, a steep. 
Heuk, a reaping-hook. 
Hie, high. _ Hich, high. 
Hidin', hiding. 

Hilch, to hobble. Hilchin, halting. 
Hill tap, hill top. 
Hiltie skiltie, helter-skelter. 
Himsel, himself. 
Hiney, honey. 
Hing, to hang. Hingin', hanging. Hinging, 

hanging. 
Hirples, walks with difficulty. Hirplin, limp- 
ing. 
Hissels, hissel, so many cattle as one person 

can attend. 
Histie, dry, barren. 
Hitch, a loop or knot. 
Hizzies, young women. 
Hoast, a cough. 
Hoble, to hobble. 

Hoddin, the motion of a man on horseback. 
Hoggie, a young sheep after it is smeared and 

before it is shorn. 
Hog-score, a kind of distance-line drawn 

across the rink. 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play by justling 

with the shoulder. 
Hol't, holed, perforated. 
Hool, the outer skin or case. 
Hoodie-craw, the hooded crow. 
Hoodock, miserly. 
Hoolie ! stop! 

Hoord, hoard. Hoordet, hoarded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn; a comb made of 

horn. 
Hornie, Satan. 

Hostin, coughing. Host, a cough. 
Hotch'd, fidgetted. 
Houghmagandie, fornication. 
Houlets, owls. Howlet-faced, faced like an 

owl. 
Housie, dim. of house. 
Hov'd, swelled. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollowly, a hollow or dell. Howes, 

hollows. 
Howe-backit, sunk in the back, 
Howkit, digged, dug up. 



Hoy't, urged. 

Hoyse, hoist. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, Hugh. 

Hunder, a hundred. 

Hunkers, hams. 

Huntit, hunted. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hurchin, an urchin. 

Hurdies, hips. 

Hurl, to fall down ruinously; to ride. 

Hushion, a cushion. 

Hyte, mad. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 

Ier'oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, each. Ilka, every. 

Ill-willie, ill-natured. 

Indentin, indenturing. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle-lowe, the household fire. Ingle-cheek, 

the fireside. 
In's, in his. In't, in it. 
I'se, I shall or will. 
Isna, is not. 
Ither, other. 
Itsel, itself. 

Jad, a jade. Jads, jades. 

J an war, January. 

J auk, to dally, to trifle. 

Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 

Jauner, foolish talk. 

Jauntie, dim. of jaunt. 

Jaups, splashes. 

Jaw, to pour. 

Jillet, a jilt. 

Jimp, to jump; slender. Jimps, a kind of easy 

stays. 
Jimply, neatly. 

Jink, to dodge. Jinkin, dodging. 
Jinker, that turns quickly. 
Jinkers, gay sprightly girls. 
Jirkinet, an outer jacket or jerkin worn by 

women. 
Jirt, a jerk. 
Jobbin', jobbing. 
Joctelegs, clasp-knives. 
Joes, lovers. Jo, sweetheart, a term expressing 

affection and some degree of familiarity. 
Johnny Ged's Hole, the grave-digger. 
Jokin, joking. 
Jorum, the jug. 

Jouk, to duck, to make obeisance. 
Jow, to jow, to swing and sound. 
Jumpit, jumped. 
Jundie, tojustle. 

Kaes, daws. 

Kail, broth. Kail-blade, the leaf of the cole- 
wort. Kail-runt, the stem of the colewort. 
Kain, farm produce paid as rent. 
Kebars, rafters. 







Hf 



V^W^ 



GLOSSARY, 



Kebbuck, a cheese. Kebbuck-heel, the re- 
maining portion of a cheese. 

Keckle, to cackle, to laugh. 

Keekin'-glass, a looking-glass. 

Keekit, peeped. 

Keeks, peeps. 

Keepit, kept. 

Kelpies, water-spirits. 

Ken, know. Kent, knew. Kend, known. 
Kenn'd, known. 

Kennin, a little bit. 

Kep, to catch any thing when falling. 

Ket, a fleece. 

Kiaugh, anxiety. 

Kickin', kicking. 

Kilbagie, the name of a certain kind of whisky. 

Kilt, to tuck up. 

Killie, Kilmarnock. 

Kimmer, a girl. 

Kin', kind. 

Kintra, country. 

Kintra cooser, a country stallion. 

King's-hood, a part of the entrails of an ox. 

Kirn, a churn. Kirns, harvest-homes. 

Kirsen, to christen. 

Kist, a shop counter. 

Kissin', kissing. 

Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread to serve 
for soup or gravy. Kitchens, seasons, 
makes palatable. 

Kittle, to tickle, ticklish. 

Kittlin, a kitten. 

Kiutlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rock. 

Knappin-hammers, hammers for breaking 
stones. 

Knowe, a hillock. 

Knurl, a churl. 

Knurlin, a dwarf. 

Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district of Ayrshire. 

Kytes, bellies. 

Kythe, discover. 

Laddie, a lad. 
Lade, a load. 

Laggen, the angle between the side and bot- 
tom of a wooden dish. 
Laigh, low. 
Laik, lack. 
Lair, lore. 

Lairing, wading and sinking in snow or mud. 
Laith, loath. 
Laithfu', bashful. 
Lallan, lowland. 
Lambie, dim. of lamb. 
Lampit, limped. 
Lan', land, estate. 
Lane, alone. Lanely, lonely. 
Lang, long. Langer, longer. 
Lap, did leap. 
Laughin, laughing. 
Lave, the rest. 
Lav rocks, larks. 



Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Lawlan, lowland. 

Lazie, lazy. 

Lea'e, leave. 

Leal, true. 

Lea- rig, a grassy ridge. 

Lear, lore, learning. 

Lee, the lea. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endear- 
ment, I am happy in thee, or proud of thee. 

Leister, a three-barbed instrument for sticking 
fish. 

Len', lend. 

Leugh, laughed. 

Leuk, look, appearance. 

Ley crap, lea crop. 

Libbet, gelded. 

Licks, a beating. Gat his licks, got a beat- 
ing. 

Licket, beaten. 

Lickit, licked with desire. 

Lien, lain. 

Liein, telling lies. 

Lift, heaven. 

Lift, a large quantity. 

Lightly, to undervalue, to slight. 

Liken, to compare. 

Lilt, sing. 

Limbies, dim. of limbs. 

Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 

Limpit, limped. 

Linket, tripped deftly. Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a waterfall. Lin, a waterfall. 

Lint, flax. Sin lint was i' the bell, since 
flax was in flower. 

Linties, linnets. 

Lippened, trusted. 

Lippie, dim. oilip. 

Loan, milking place. Loan, lane 

Lo'ed, loved. 

Lon'on, London. 

Loof, palm of the hand. Looves, palms. 

Loosome, lovesome. 

Loot, did let. 

Losh, a petty oath. 

Lough, lake. 

Louns, ragamuffins. 

Loup, to leap. 

Lovin', loving. 

Low, flame. 

Lowping, leaping. Lowpin, leaping. 

Lowin, blazing. Lowan, flaming. 

Lows'd, loosed. Lowse, to loosen. 

Luckie, a designation applied to an elderly 
woman. 

Lug, the ear; to produce, to bring out. Lug- 
get, earned. Lugget caup, eared cup. 

Luggies, small wooden dishes with handles. 

Luke, look. 

Lum, the chimney. 

Lunardie, a bonnet called after Lunardi the 
aeronaut. 




350 



GLOSSARY. 



Lunt, a column of smoke. 

Luntin, smoking. 

Luve, love. Luvers, lovers. 

Lyart, gray. 

Lynin, lining. 

Mae, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, almost, that nearly. Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, make. Makin, making. 

Mailie, Molly. 

Mailins, farms. Mailen, farm. 

Mang, among. 

Manse, a parsonage house. 

Manteeles, mantles. 

Mark, marks. 

Mar's year, 1715, the year of Mar's rebellion. 

Mashlum, mixed corn. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Maun, must. Maunna, must not. 

Maut, malt. 

Mavis, the thrush. 

Mawin, mowing. 

Mawn, a basket, mown. 

Maybe, perhaps. 

Meere, a mare. 

Meikle, as much. 

Melder, corn or grain of any kind sent to the 
mill to be ground. 

Mell, to meddle. 

Melvie, to soil with meal. 

Men', mend. 

Mense, good manners. 

Mess John, the clergyman. 

Messin, a dog of mixed breeds. 

Midden, the dunghill. Midden-creels, dung- 
hill baskets. Midden-hole, the dunghill. 

Midge, a gnat. 

Mim, prim. 

Mim-mou'd, prim-mouthed. 

Min', mind. Minds me, remembers me. 

Min, remembrance. 

Min't-na, cared not. 

Minnie, mother. 

Mirk, dark. 

Misca'd, abused. Miska't, abused. 

Misguidin', misguiding. 

Mishanter, misfortune, disaster. 

Mislear'd, mischievous. 

Mist, missed. 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 

Mizzled, having different colors. 

Moistify, to make moist. 

Mony, many. 

Mools, the earth of graves. 

Moop, to nibble; to keep company with. 

Moorlan', moorland. 

Moss, a morass. 

Mou, mouth. 

Moudieworts, moles. 

Mousie, dim. of mouse. 



Movin', moving. 

Muckle, great, big, much. 

Musie, dim. of mtise. 

Muslin-kail, broth composed simply of water, 

shelled barley, and greens. 
Mutchkin, an English pint. 
Mysel, myself. 

Na', not, no. 

Nae, no. Naebody, nobody. 

Naething, nothing. 

Naig, a nag. Naigies, dim. of nags. 

Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale. 

Natch, grip, hold. To natch, to lay hold of 

violently. 
Near't, near it. 
Neebors, neighbors. 
Needna, need no-t. 
Negleckit, neglected. 
Neuk, nook, corner. 
New-ca'd, newly driven. 
Nick, to break, to sever suddenly. Nicks, 

knocks, blows. Auld crummie's nicks, 

marks on the horn of a cow. 
Nickan, cutting. 
Nicket, caught, cut off. 
Nick-nackets, curiosities. 
Niest, next. Neist, next. 
Nieves, fists. Nieve-fu', fist-full. 
Niffer, exchange. 
Niger, a negro. 
Nits, nuts. 
Nocht, nothing. 
Norland, Northland. 
Notet, noted. 
Nowte, cattle. 

O', of. 

O'erword, any term frequently repeated, a 

refrain. 
O'erlay, an outside dress, an overall. 
Ony, any. 

Orra, supernumerary. 
O't, of it. O'ts, of it is. 
Ought, aught, any thing. 
Oughtlins, any thing in the least. 
Ourie, shivering. 
Oursel, ourselves. 
Out-cast, a quarrel. 
Outler, un-housed. 
Owre, over, too. 
Owrehip, a way of fetching a blow with the 

hammer over the arm. 
Owsen, oxen. 

Pack, pack an' thick, on friendly or intimate 

terms. 
Packs, twelve stones. 
Paidle, to paddle. Paidles, wanders about 

without object or motive. Paidl't, paddled. 
Painch, paunch, stomach. 
Paitricks, partridges. 
Pangs, crams. 






GLOSSARY. 



351 



Parishen, the parish. 

Parritch, oatmeal boiled in water, stirabout. 

Parritch-pats, porridge-pots. 

Pat, put, a pot. 

Pattle, a plough-staff. 

Paughty, haughty. 

Paukie, cunning, sly. 

Pay't, paid. 

Pechan, the stomach. 

Pechin, panting. 

Peel, a tower. 

Peelin, peeling. 

Penny wheep, small beer. 

Petticoatie, dim. of petticoat. 

Pettle, a plough-staff. 

Phraisin, flattering. 

Pickle, a small quantity. 

Pit, put. Pits, puts. 

Placads, public proclamations. 

Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a 
Scotch penny, twelve of which make an Eng- 
lish penny. 

Plaiden, plaiding. Pladie, dim. oiplaid. 

Plaister, to plaster. 

Platie, dim. of plate. 

Pleugh, plough. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Pliver, a plover. 

Plumpit, plumped. 

Pocks, wallets. 

Poind, to seize for sequestration. 

Poind't, poinded. 

Poortith, poverty. 

Posie, a bouquet. 

Pouchie, dim. of pouch. 

Pouk, to pluck. 

Poupit, pulpit. 

Pouse, a push. 

Poussie, a hare. 

Pouts, poults, chicks. 

Pouther'd, powdered. Pouthery, powdery. 

Pou't, pulled. Pou, to pull. 

Pow, the head, the skull. 

Pownie, a pony, a small horse. 

Powther, powder. 

Praise be blest, an expression of thankful- 
ness. 

Prayin, praying. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prent, print. 

Pridefu', pridefull. 

Pree, to taste. Prie'd, tasted. 

Prief , proof. 

Priestie, dim. of priest. 

Priggin, haggling. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to propose. 

Proveses, provosts. 

Pu\ to pull. Pu'd, pulled. 

Puddock-stools, mushrooms. 

Puddin', a pudding. 

Pund, pounds. 

Pursie, dim. oi purse. 

Pyke, to pick. 



Pyet, the magpie. 
Pyles, grains. 

Quat, quit, quitted. 

Quaick, quack. 

Quaukin, quaking. 

Quey, a cow from one year to two years old. 

Quo', quoth. 

Rad, afraid. 

Ragweed, the plant ragwort. 

Rade, rode. 

Raibles, rattles, nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. Wad rair't, would have roared. 

Rairin, roaring. 

Raise, rose. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ramblin, rambling. 

Ramfeezl'd, fatigued. 

Ramgunshock, rugged. 

Ram-stam, forward. 

Randie, quarrelsome. 

Randy, a term of opprobrium generally applied 
to a woman. 

Ranklin', rankling. 

Ranting, noisy, tull of animal spirits. 

Rants, jollifications. 

Rape, a rope. 

Raplock, coarse. 

Rash, a rush. Rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 

Rattan, a rat. 

Rattons, rats. 

Raucle, fearless. 

Raught, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax, to stretch. Rax'd, stretched out, extend- 
ed. 

Raxin, stretching. 

Ream, cream. 

Rebute, a rebut, a discomfiture. 

Red, counsel. 

Red-wud, stark mad. 

Reekin, smoking. Reeks, smokes. Reekit, 
smoked, smoky. 

Reestit, withered, singed, stood restive. 

Reflec', reflect. 

Reif randies, sturdy beggars. 

Remead, remedy. 

Remuve, remove. 

Respeckit, respected. 

Restricked, restricted. 

Rew, to take pity. 

Rickles, stocks of grain. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Riggin, rafters. 

Rigwooddie, withered, sapless. 

Rin, run. Rinnin, running. 

Rink, the course of the stones: a term in curl- 
ing. 

Ripp, a handful of unthreshed corn. 

Ripple, weakness in the back and reins. 

Ripplin-kame, a flax-comb. 

Ripps, handfuls. 

Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 








GLOSSARY. 





Rive, to burst. 

Rives, tears to pieces. 

Rives' t, tears it. 

Roastin', roasting. 

Rock, a distaff. 

Rockin, a social gathering, the women spinning 

on the rock or distaff. 
Roon, round. 

Roose, to praise. Roos'd, praised. 
Roosty, rusty. 
Roun\ round. 

Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 
Routhie, well filled, abundant. 
Rowes, rolls. 
Rowin, rolling. 
Row't, rolled. 
Rowte, to low, to bellow. 
Rowth, abundance. 
Rowtin, lowing. 
Rozet, rosin. 
Ruefu', rueful. 
Rung, a cudgel. 
Runkl'd, wrinkled. 
Runts, the stems of cabbage. 
Ryke, reach. 

Sabs, sobs. 

Sae, so. 

Saft, soft. 

Sair, sore, to serve. 

Sairly, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sang, song. 

Sannock, Alexander. 

Sark, a shirt. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Sauce, scorn, insolence. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Saugh woodies, ropes made of willow withes. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, a salmon. 

Saunt, saints. 

Saut, salt. Sautet, salted. Saut backets, 

salt buckets. 
Saw, to sow. 
Sawin, sowing. 
Sax, six. 

Saxpence, sixpence. 
Say't, say it. 
Scaith, hurt. 
Scar, to scare. 
Scaud, to scald. 
Scaur, frightened. 
Scawl, a scold. 
Scho, she. 

Schoolin', schooling, teaching. 
Scones, barley cakes. 
Sconner, to loathe, loathing. 
Scraichin, screaming. 
Scrapin', scraping. 
Screechin, screeching. 
Screed, a tear, a rent; to repeat glibly. 
Scrievin, gliding easily. 
Scrimpit, scanty. Scrimply, scantly. 



Scroggie, covered with stunted shrubs. 

Sculdudd'ry, a ludicrous term denoting forni- 
cation. 

See't, see it. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self. 

Sell't, sold. 

Sen', send. Sen't, send it. 

Servan', servant. 

Settlin, gat a fearfu' settlin, was frightened 
into quietness. 

Set, lot. Sets, becomes, sets off, starts. 

Shachl't, deformed. 

Shaird, a shred. 

Shangan, a cleft stick. 

Shank, the leg and foot. Shanks, legs. 

Shanna, shall not. Sha'na, shall not. 

Sharin't, sharing it. 

Shaul, shallow. 

Shaver, a wag. 

Shavie, a trick. 

Shaw, show. Shaw'd, showed. 

Shaws, wooded dells. 

Sheep-shank, wha thinks himsel nae 
sheep-shank bane, who thinks himself no 
unimportant personage. 

Sheers, shears, scissors. 

Sherra-muir, sheriff-muir. 

Sheugh, a trench. 

Sheuk, shook. 

Shiel, a shieling, a hut. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shillin's, shillings. 

Shog, a shock. 

Shools, shovels. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to threaten. Shor'd, threatened, of- 
fered. 

Shouldna, should not. 

Shouther, shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, did cut grain. 

Sic, such. Siclike, suchlike. 

Sicker, secure. 

Sidelins, sidelong. 

Sighin', sighing. 

Siller, money, of the color of silver. 

Simmer, summer. Simmers, summers. 

Sin', since. Sin syne, since. 

Sindry, sundry. 

Sinfu', sinful. 

Singet, singed. 

Singin', singing. Sing't, sing it. 

Sinn, the sun. Sinny, sunny. 

Skaith, injury. Skaithing, injuring. 

Skeigh, high-mettled, shy, proud, disdainful. 

Skellum, a worthless fellow. 

Skelp, a slap, to run. 

Skelpie-limmer, a technical term in female 
scolding. 

Skelpin, walking smartly, resounding. 

Skelping, slapping. Skelpit, hurried. 

Skinklin, glittering. 

Skirl, to shriek. Skirlin, shrieking. Skirl'd, 
shrieked. 




iAr^W 11 






GLOSSARY. 



353 



Sklent, to deviate from truth. Sklentin, 
slanting. Sklented, slanted. 

Skouth, range, scope. 

Skreech, to scream. 

Skrieigh, to scream. 

Skyrin, any thing that strongly takes the eye, 
showy, gaudy. 

Skyte, a sharp oblique stroke. 

Slade, slid. 

Slae, the sloe. 

Slaps, flashes, gates, stiles, breaches in hedges. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, shy. Sleeest, slyest. 

Sleekit, sleek. 

Slidd'ry, slippery. 

Sloken, to quench, to allay thirst. 

Slypet, slipped, fell over. 

Sma', small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder. 

Smeek, smoke. 

Smiddy, a smithy. 

Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smoutie, smutty. 

Smytrie, a number huddled together. 

Snap, smart. 

Snapper, to stumble. 

Snash, abuse, impertinence. 

Snaw broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Snawy, snowy. 

Sned, to lop, to cut. 

Snell, bitter, biting. Snellest, sharpest, 
keenest. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snick, the latchet of a door. 

Snirtle, to snigger. 

Snool, to cringe, to submit tamely; to snub. 

Snoov't, went smoothly. Snoov'd, sneaked. 

Snowkit, snuffed. 

Sodger, a soldier. Sodgerin', soldiering. 

Soger, a soldier. 

Sonsie, jolly, comely. 

Soom, to swim. 

Soor, sour. 

Sootie, sooty. 

Sough, a heavy sigh. 

Souk, a suck. 

Soupe, a spoonful, a small quantity of any 
thing liquid. 

Souple, supple. 

Souter, a shoemaker. Sowter, a shoemaker. 

Sowps, spoonfuls. 

Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 

Sowther, to solder, to make up. 

Spae, to prophesy. 

Spails, chips of wood. 

Spairges, dashes or scatters about. 

Spairin, sparing. 

Spak, spake. 

Spate, a flood. 

Spavie, a disease. Spaviet, having the spa- 
vin. 

Spean, to wean. 

Speel, to climb. Speel'd, climbed. 



Speer, to inquire. 

Spence, the country parlor. 

Spinnin, spinning. 

Spier, to ask, to inquire. Spier'd, inquired. 

Spier't, inquired. 
Spleuchan, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a frolic. 
Sprackled, clambered. 
Sprattle, to struggle. 

Spring, a quick air in music, a Scottish reel. 
Sprittie, full of spirits. 
Sprush, spruce. 
Spunk, fire, mettle, a spark. Spunkie, full of 

spirit; whiskey. Spunkies, wills-o'-the-wisp. 
Spurtle, a stick with which porridge, broth, 

&c, are stirred while boiling. 
Squattle, to sprawl. 
Squeel, to scream. 

Stacher'd, staggered, walked unsteadily. 
Stacher't, staggered. 
Stack, stuck. 
Staggie, dim. of stag. 
Staig, a horse of one, two, or three years old, 

not yet broken for riding, nor employed in 

work. 
Stan', a stand. Wad stan't, would have 

stood. 
Stanes, stones. 
Stang, to sting. 
Stank, a pool or pond. 
Stap, to stop. 
Stark, strong. 

Starns, stars. Starnies, dim. oistarns. 
Startin, starting. 
Startles, runs hurriedly. 
Starvin, starving. 
Staukin, stalking. 
Staumrel, half-witted. 
Staw, to steal, to surfeit. 
Stechin, cramming, panting with repletion. 
Steek, to close. Steeks, stitches, reticula- 
tions. 
Steer, to injure, to stir up. Steer'd, molested. 
Steeve, firm, compacted. 
Stells, stills. 
Sten, a leap or bound. Hasty stens, hasty 

stretches or rushes. 
Sten't, reared. 
Stents, assessments, dues. 
Steyest, steepest. 
Stibble, stubble. Stibble-rig, the reaper in 

harvest who takes the lead; a stubble-ridge. 
Stick an stow, totally, altogether. 
Stilt, halt. 
Stimpart, an eighth part of a Winchester 

bushel. 
Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 
Stocks, plants of cabbage. 
Stockit, stocked. 

Stockin, stocking. Stockins, stockings. 
Stoited, walked stupidly. 
Stoitered, staggered. 
Stoor, sounding hollowly or hoarsely. 
Stoppit, stopped. 




354 



GLOSSARY. 



Stot, an ox. 

Stoure, dust; dust blown on the wind; press- 
ure of circumstances. 

Stowrie, dusty. 

Stown, stolen. 

Stownlins, by stealth. 

Stoyte, to stumble. 

Strade, strode. 

Strae, a fair strae-death, a natural death. 

Straik, to stroke. Straikit, stroked. 

Strak, struck. 

Strang, strong. 

Strappan, strapping. Strappin, strapping. 

Straught, straight. 

Streamies, dim. of streams. 

Streekit, stretched. Streekit owre, stretched 
across. 

Strewin, strewing. 

Striddle, to straddle. 

Stringin, stringing. 

Stroan't, pissed. 

Studdie, a stithy. 

Stumpie, dim. of stump, a short quill. 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind; to walk 
sturdily. 

Stuff, corn. 

Sturt, to molest, to vex. 

Sturtin, frighted. 

Styme, see a styme, see in the least. 

Sucker, sugar. 

Sud, should. 

Sugh, a rushing sound. 

Sumphs, stupid fellows. 

Sune, soon. 

Suppin, supping. 

Suthron, Southern, English. 

Swaird, sward. 

Swall'd, swelled. 

Swank, stately. 

Swankies, strapping young fellows. 

Swap, an exchange. 

Swarf, to swoon. 

Swat, did sweat. 

Swatch, sample, specimen. 

Swats, ale. 

Swearin', swearing. 

Sweatin, sweating. 

Swoor, swore. 

Swinge, to lash. 

Swingein, whipping. 

Swirl, a curve. 

Swith, swift. 

Swither, doubt. 

Sybow, a leek. 

Syne, since, then. 

Tack, possession, lease. 

Tackets, a kind of nails for driving into the 

heels of shoes. 
Tae, toe. Three-tae'd, three-toed. 
Taed, a toad. 
Taen, taken. 
Tairge, to task severely. 
Tak, to take. 



Tald, told. 

Tane, the one. 

Tangs, tongs. 

Taps, tops. Tapmost, topmost. 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 

Tapsalteerie, topsy-turvy. 

Tappit hen, a quart measure. 

Tarrow, to murmur. 

Tarrow't, murmured. 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 

Tassie, a goblet. 

Tauld, told. 

Tawted, matted, uncombed. 

Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be 
handled. 

Tawpies, foolish, thoughtless young person. 

Teats, small quantities. 

Teen, provocation, chagrin. 

Tellin', telling. Tell'd, told. 

Temper pin, the wooden pin used for temper- 
ing or regulating the motion of a spinning 
wheel. 

Ten-hours-bite, a slight feed to the horses 
while in yoke in the forenoon. 

Tent, to take heed, mark. 

Tentie, heedful. 

Tentier, more careful. 

Teughly, toughly. 

Teuk, took. 

Thack an rape, clothes. 

Thae, these. 

Thairm, fiddlestrings. 

Thankfu', thankful. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched, covered up, secured. 

Thegither, together. 

Themsels, themselves. 

Thick, pack an thick, friendly. 

Thieveless, cold, dry; spited. 

Thigger, begging. 

Thir, these, their. 

Thirl 'd, thrilled. 

Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thou's, thou art. 

Thowes, thaws. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Thrang, busy; a crowd. 

Thrapple, the throat. 

Thrave, twenty-four sheaves of corn, includ- 
ing two shocks. 

Thraw, to sprain or twist; to cross or con- 
tradict. Thrawin, twisting. Thrawn, 
twisted. 

Thraws, throes. 

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion. 

Thresh, to thrash. Threshing, thrashing. 

Thretteen, thirteen. 

Thretty, thirty. 

Thrissle, the thistle. 

Throwther, a'throwther, through-other, 
pell-mell. 

Thuds, that makes a loud intermittent noise ; 
resounding blows. 

Thumart, the weasel. 




GLOSSARY. 



355 



Thumpit, thumped. 

Thysel', thyself. 

Tidins, tidings. 

Till, unto. 

Till't, to it. 

Timmer, timber; the tree boughs. Timmer 
propt, timber propped. 

Tine, to lose; to go astray. 

Tint, lost. Tint as win, lost as won. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tips, rams. 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl, to strip. 

Tirlin, unroofing. 

Tirl'd, knocked. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tocher-band, dowry bond. 

Todlin, tottering. 

Tods, foxes. 

Toom, empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet, a farmhouse. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet. 

To've, to have. 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Touzie, rough, shaggy. 

Towzle, to rumple. Towzling, rumpling, 
dishevelling. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head- 
dress. 

Toyte, to totter. 

Transmugrify'd, metamorphosed. 

Trashtrie, trash. 

Treadin', treading. 

Trews, trousers. 

Trickie, tricksy. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trinkling, trickling. 

Troggin, wares sold by wandering mer- 
chants. 

Troke, to exchange, to deal with. 

Trottin, trotting. 

Trouse, trousers. 

Trow't, believed. 

Trowth, a petty oath. 

Try't, have tried. 

Tulzie, a quarrel. 

Tunefu', tuneful. 

Tup, a ram. 

Twa, two. 

Twa fauld, twofold, doubled up. 

Twa three, two or three. 

Twal, twelve o'clock. Twalt, the twelfth. 
Twalpenniworth, twelvepenny worth. 

Twang, twinge. 

Twined, reft. 

Twins, bereaves, takes away from. 

Twistle, a twist. 

Tyke, a vagrant dog. 

Tyne, to lose. 

Tysday 'teen, Tuesday evening. 



Unchancy, dangerous. 

Unco, very, great, extreme, strange. 

Uncos, strange things, news of the country 

side. 
Unkend, unknown. Unkenn'd, unknown. 
Unsicker, unsecure. 
Unskaith'd, unhurt. 
Upo', upon. Upon't, upon it. 

Vap'rin, vaporing. 
Vauntie, proud, in high spirits. 
Vera, very. 
Viewin, viewing. 
Virls, rings round a column. 
Vittel, victual, grain. Vittle, victual. 
Vogie, proud, well-pleased. 
Vow, an interjection expressive of admiration 
or surprise. 

Wa', a wall. 

Wa' flower, the wallflower. 

Wab, a web. 

Wabster, a weaver. 

Wad, would. Wad a haen, would have had. 
Wadna, would not. 

Wad, a wager, to wed. 

Wadset, a mortgage. 

Wae, sorrowful. Wae worth, woe befall. 

Wae days, woeful days. Waefu', woeful. 

Waes-me, woe's-me. 

Waesucks! alas! 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the shut- 
tle through the web. 

Waifs, stray sheep. 

Wair't, spend it. War'd, spent, bestowed. 

■Wale, choice. Pick and wale, of choicest 
quality. Wal'd, chose. 

Walie, ample, large. Waly, ample. 

Wallop in a tow, to hang one's self. 

Wame, the belly. Wamefou, bellyful. 

Wan, did win, earned. 

Wanchancie, unlucky. 

Wanrestfu', restless. 

Ware, to spend, worn. 

Wark, work. Warks, works, in the sense of 
buildings, manufactures, etc. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with. 

Warld, world. Warly, worldly. 

■Warlock, a wizard. 

Warran, warrant. 

Warsle, to wrestle. Warstl'd, wrestled. 

Warst, worst. 

Wasna, was not. 

Wast, west. 

Wastrie, prodigality, riot. 

Wat, wet. 

Wat, wot, know. Wat na, wot not. 

Waterbrose, brose made of meal and water 
simply. 

Wattle, a wand. 

Wauble, to swrhg, to reel. 

Waukit, thickened with toil. 

Waukrife, wakeful. 

Wauks, awakes. Waukening, awakening. 



WjBj&te*-*^ 




SfP^ 






356 



GLOSSARY. 



Waukens, wakens. 

Waur, to fight, to defeat; worse. Waur't, 

worsted. 
Weans, children. Weanies, dim. of weans. 
Weason, the weasand. 
Wee, little. A wee, a short period of time. 

A wee a-back, a small space behind. 
Weel, well. Weel-gaun, well going. 
Weel-kent, well-known. 
Weet, wet, dew, rain. 
We'se, we shall or will. 
Westlin, western. 
Wha, who. Wha ere, whoever. Wha's, 

whose. Whase, whose. 
Whaizle, to wheeze. 
Whalpit, whelped. 
■Wham, whom. 
Whan, when. 

Whang, a large slice; to give the strappado. 
Whar, where. Whare, where. 
Whatfore no? for what reason not? 
Whatt, did whet or cut. 
Whaup, a curlew. 
Whaur'll, where will. 
Wheep, flying nimbly. 
Whiddin, running as a hare. 
Whigmeleeries, crotchets. 
Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whins, furze bushes. 
Whirligigums, useless ornaments. 
Whisht, peace. Held my whisht, kept 

silence. 
Whiskit, whisked. 
Whissle, whistle. So gat the whissle o' 

my groat, to play a losing game. 
Whistle, the throat. 
Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whunstane, whinstone, granite. 
Whup, a whip. 
Whyles, sometimes. 
Wi', with. 
Wick, a term in curling, to strike a stone in an 

oblique direction. 
Widdiefu, ill-tempered. 
Widdle, a struggle or bustle. 
Wiel, a small whirlpool. 
Wifie, dim. of wife. 
Wight, strong, powerful. 
Wil' cat, the wild cat. 
Willie waught, a hearty draught. 
Willow wicker, the smaller species of willow. 
Willyart, wild, strange, timid. 
Wimpl't, wimpled. Wimplin, waving, me- 
andering. 
Win', wind. Wins, winds. 




Winkin, winking. 

Win't, did wind. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock-bunker, a seat in a window. 

Winnocks, windows. 

Wintle, a staggering motion. Wintles, strug- 
gles. 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, wish. 

With a', withal. 

Withoutten, without. 

Wonner, a wonder, a contemptuous appella- 
tion. 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo', wool. 

Woodie, the gallows, a rope, more properly 
one made of withes or willows. 

Wooer-babs, garters knotted below the knee 
in a couple of loops. 

Wordie, dim. of word. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worl', world. 

Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 

Wrang, wrong, mistaken. Wranged, wrong- 
ed. 

Wreeths, wreaths. 

Wud, mad. 

Wumbie, a wimble. 

Wyle, to beguile, to decoy. Wyling, beguil- 
ing. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyte, to blame, to reproach. 

Yard, a garden. 

Yaud, a worn-out horse. 

Yell, barren: as yell's the bill, giving no 

more milk than the bull. 
Yerd, the churchyard. 
Yerket, jerked, lashed. 
Ye'se, you shall or will. 
Yestreen, yesternight. 
Yetts, gates. 
Yeukin, itching. 
Yeuks, itches. 
Yill, ale. 

Yill-caup, ale stoup. 
Yird, earth. 
Yirl, an earl. 
Yirth, the earth. 
Yokin, yoking, a bout, a set-to. 
Yoursel, yourselves, yourself. 
Yont, beyond. 

Yowes, ewes. Yowie, dim. oiyowe. 
Yule, Christmas. 








INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE. 

A guid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! . 57 
A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and 

soul 311 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight 141 

A rose-bud by my early walk . . . 214 

A slave to love's unbounded sway . . 272 

A' the lads o' Thornie bank . . . 277 

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink • . 69 
Accept the gift a friend sincere . .124 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! . 247 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace . 106 

Adown winding Nith I did wander . 236 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl. . 180 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! . . 230 

Again rejoicing Nature sees . . . 248 

Again the silent wheels of time . . 72 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be . . 304 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch . 172 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! ... 72 

Altho' my back be at the wa' . . . 275 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir . . 263 

Altho' thou maun never be mine . . 209 

Amang the trees where humming bees . 261 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 107 

An honest man here lies at rest . . . 126 

An' O ! my Eppie . . . . . 305 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy De- 
cember! ...... 223 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . . 238 

Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest . 127 

As cauld a wind as ever blew . . . 164 

As down the burn they took their way . 275 

As father Adam first was fool'd . . 178 

As I came in by our gate end . . 272 

As I stood by yon roofless tower . . 228 
As I was a wand'ring ae midsummer 

e'enin' 278 

As Mailie an' her lambs thegither . 33 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith . . 155 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day . . 169 

Ask why God made the gem so small . 172 
At Brownhill we always get dainty good 

cheer . • • _. . . .184 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner . 147 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 209 

Bannocks o' bear meal .... 281 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay . . 101 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows . 214 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! 
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes 
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness 
Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill 
Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing 
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway 
But lately seen in gladsome green . 
But rarely seen since Nature's birth . 
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove 
By Ochtertyre grows the aik 
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day 

Can I cease to care 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west 
Cauld is the e'enin' blast . 
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul . 
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er 
Come, let me take thee to my breast 
Coming through the rye, poor body 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair 
Could aught of song declare my pains , 
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch 

life 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be 

pleas'd 

Dear , I'll gie ye some advice 

Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief 
Deluded swain, the pleasure 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw . 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? . 
Duncan Gray came here to woo . 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark . 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell 
Edina! Scotia's darling seat ! . 
Expect na, Sir, in this narration . 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint 

Fair the face of orient day 

False flatterer, Hope, away ! 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame . 

Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit 



you 



Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains 
357 




358 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth 
and ye skies ..... 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong . 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped . 

Fill me with the rosy wine 

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife 

First when Maggy was my care 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
braes ....... 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn . 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near 

Frae the friends and land I love 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal . 

From thee, Eliza, I must go . . 

From those drear solitudes and frowzy 
cells 

Friday first's the day appointed 

Full well thou know'st 1 love thee dear 

Fy, let us a' to Kircudbright . 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me . 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine . 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may 

live 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer 
Guid-mornin to your Majesty! 
Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny 

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie! 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore 

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte 

Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! . 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! 

Hark! the mavis' evening sang 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ? 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist 

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and 

dead 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots 
Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald . 
He looked just as your Sign-post lions do 
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie 
Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct 
Here comes Burns .... 
Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay . 
Here is the glen, and here the bower 
Here lie Willie Michie's banes 
Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles 

were shamm'd 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man ! 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon 

Here sowter Hood in death does sleep 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd . 

Here, where the Scotish Muse immortal 

lives 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend 
Here's a health to them that's awa . 



202 
255 
259 
166 
152 
252 

222 

140- 
211 
306 
"5 
240 

149 

186 



280 
227 

175 

305 

37 

131 

77 

197 
279 
11S 
156 
200 

43 

180 

175 
139 
99 

280 

311 

279 
265 
i95 
158 
183 
137 
199 
179 



158 
181 
180 
182 
158 



Here's to thy health, my bonie lass 
Hey, the dusty miller . 
His face with smile eternal drest 
Honest Will to heaven is gane 
How can my poor heart be glad 
How cold is that bosom which folly 

fired 

How cruel are the parents 
How daur ye ca' me howlet-faced 
How lang and dreary is the night . 
How pleasant the banks of the clear-wind 

ing Devon ..... 
How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace 
How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and 

unite ...... 

Husband, husband, cease your strife 

am a keeper of the law . . 

am rny mammie's ae bairn . 
I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn 

call no Goddess to inspire my strains . 

coft a stane o' haslock woo' 

do confess thou art sae fair 

dream'd I lay where flowers were spring- 
ing 

gaed a waefu' gate yestreen . 

gaed up to Dunse .... 

gat your letter, winsome Willie 

had sax owsen in a pleugh . 

hae a wife o' my ain 

hold it, Sir, my bounden duty 

lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend 

married with a scolding wife 

met a lass, a bonie lass . 

mind it weel, in early date . 

murder hate by field or flood . 

sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth . 
f thou should ask my love 
f ye gae up to yon hill-tap . 
f you rattle along like your mistress'; 

tongue 

Ik care and fear, when thou art near 

'11 ay ca' in by yon town 

'm three times doubly o'er your debtor 

n coming by the brig o' Dye 

n Mauchline there dwells six proper young 

Belles . _ . . . . 
n politics if thou wouldst mix . 
n simmer when the hay was mawn 
n this strange land, this uncouth clime 
n Torbolton, ye ken, there are proper 

young men 
n vain would Prudence, with decorous 

sneer ...... 

n wood and wild, ye warbling throng . 
nhuman man! curse on thybarb'rous art 
nstead of a Song, boys, I'll give you i 

Toast ...... 

s there a whim-inspired fool . 
s there, for honest poverty 
s this thy plighted, fond regard . 
t is na, Jean, thy bonie face . 
t was a' for our rightfu' King 



PAGE. 
283 

279 

% 

199 



122 
206 
184 

208 

233 

155 



196 

174 
266 
169 
127 
280 
231 

23O 
2l8 
271 
82 



138 

73 
282 
173 
130 
179 
109 
284 
267 



172 
254 
257 
107 
286 

270 
171 
220 



163 
100 

177 
185 
247 
238 
228 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



359 



It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did 

me enthral 282 

It was the charming month of May . . 238 

It was upon a Lammas night . . 241 



Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the heather 
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss 
John Anderson my jo, John 



Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief . 
Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose 
Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw . 
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through 
Know thou, stranger to the fame 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a' 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose 
Landlady, count the lawin 
Lass, when your mither is frae hame 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg 
Let not woman e'er complain 
Let other heroes boast their scars 
Let other Poets raise a fracas 
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
Light lay the earth on Billy's breast 
Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel 
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying 

flocks 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours 
Lord, to account who dares Thee call 
Lord, we thank an' thee adore 
Loud blaw the frosty breezes 
Louis, what reck I by thee 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave . 

Musing on the roaring ocean 

My blessings on ye, honest wife . 

My bottle is my holy pool . 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang . 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 

border, O 

My Harry was a gallant gay 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie . 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell 

My heart is wae, and unco wae 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here ...... 

My heart was ance as blythe and free 

My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel 

My Lord a-hunting he is gane 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected 

friend ...... 

My love she's but a lassie yet 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form . 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write 



i73 
227 
216 

179 

253 
29 

115 
183 



34 

284 
173 

208 
92 
241 

' 7 6 
114 
167 



160 

J 3 9 
184 

174 
211 

219 

206 
169 
213 
185 
175 
236 
105 

262 
275 
217 
225 

306 

229 
283 
126 
271 



62 
284 



220 
146 
245 



No more of your guests, be they titled or 

not 124 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no 

more 123 

No sculptur'd marble here,n or pompous 

lay ...... . 128 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city 113 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway . . . 177 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 234 

Now health forsakes that angel face . . 167 
Now in her green mantle blythe nature 

arrays ....... 203 

Now Kennedy, if foot or horse . . 157 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea . . 200 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green . 89 

Now Robin lies in his last lair . . . 130 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers . 250 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes . 212 

Now spring has clad the groves in green 249 

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 242 

O a' ye pious godly flocks . . . . 132 

O bonie was yon rosy brier . . . 207 

O cam ye here the fight to shun . . 252 

O can ye labour lea, young man . . 173 

O, could I give thee India's wealth . 157 

O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life . 178 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! . 87 

O gie my love brose, brose . . . 173 

OGoudie! terror o' the Whigs . . 147 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind . 124 

O how can I be blithe and glad . . 234 

O how shall I, unskilfu', try . . . 287 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten 194 

O Kenmure's on and awa', Willie! . . 287 

O, Lady Mary Ann .... 285 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet? . . 204 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles . 267 

O leeze me on my spinnin wheel . . 219 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide . 193 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore . . 184 
O luve will venture in, where it daur na 

weel be seen ...... 222 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . . 289 

O Mary, at thy window be 259 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet . 221 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty . 210 

O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . 289 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour . . 191 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose . . 225 

O, once I lov'd a bonie lass . . . 254 

O Philly, happy be that day . . . 240 

O poortith cauld, and restless love . . 191 

O raging fortune's withering blast . . 263 

O rattlin', roarin' Willie .... 286 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine . 84 

sad and heavy should I part . . . 285 

O saw ye bonie Lesley . . . 260 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? . . . 238 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 303 

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay . 206 

O steer her up, and haud her gaun . 287 








\^0^i^r^ 




360 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE. 

O that I had ne'er been married . . 305 
O this is no my ain lassie . . . 207 
O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above 71 
O Thou Great Being ! what Thou art . 72 
O Thou, in whom we live and move . 174 
O thou pale Orb, that silent shines . 61 
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend . 71 
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause . 70 
O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell 135 
Othou! whatever title suit thee . . 31 
O Thou, who kindly dost provide . . 128 
O thou whom Poetry abhors . . . 182 
O, wat ye wha's in yon town . . . 226 
O wat ye what my minnie did . . 173 
O, were I on Parnassus' hill . . . 215 
O were my love yon lilac fair . . . 235 
O, wert thou in the cauld blast . . . 228 
O wha is she that lo'es me . . . 253 
O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? . . 230 
O wha will to Saint Stephen's house . 290 
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal ban- 
nock? ....... 288 

O whare live ye, my bonie lass . . . 304 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 197 
O why the deuce should I repine . .271 
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut . . 216 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar? 278 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel ... 42 
O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity 

stains 183 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone 

mountain straying 142 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . . 215 
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our 

peace 166 

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times . . 181 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie . 291 

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew . 194 

Old Winter with his frosty beard . . 123 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day . 264 

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells . 256 
Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd 

dear 145 

One night as I did wander .... 266 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell 178 

On peace and rest my mind was bent . 272 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 66 

Orthodox, orthodox 161 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John 

Knox ....... 103 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair . 277 

Out over the Forth I look to the north . 231 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare . 163 

Powers celestial, whose protection . . 257 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy 

name 158 

Raving winds around her blowing . 212 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart . 120 

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true . 30 

Rusticity's ungainly form . . . . 185 



PAGE. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page . . . 102 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow . 280 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets . . . 201 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth . 164 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . . 250 

Searching auld wives' barrels . . 178 

Sensibility, how charming . . . . 261 

She is a winsome wee thing . . . 190 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 221 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot . 249 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, 121 

Sic a reptile was Wat .... 184 

Simmer's a pleasant time .... 285 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless 

bough . . . . . . 124 

Sir, as your mandate did request . . 108 
Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card . . .139 
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 
ture? . . . . . . 201 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires . 264 

So heavy, passive to the tempests' shocks 311 

Some books are lies frae end to end . 19 

Some hae meat, and canna eat . . . 162 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway . 177 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? . 207 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour 117 

Strait is the spot and green the sod . . 309 

Streams that glide in orient plains . 234 
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn- 

wood ....... 276 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn . . 204 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love . 107 

Sweet naivete of feature .... 163 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee . 261 

Talk not to me of savages . . .165 

That there is falsehood in his looks . 178 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout . 273 

The black-headed eagle . . . . 174 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . 288 

The boniest lad that e'er I saw . . 293 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen . 215 

The cats like kitchen .... 171 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam here awa . . 292 

The day returns, my bosom burns . . 216 

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town „ 232 
The Devil got notice that Grose was a- 

dying 181 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's . 273 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 125 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast . 246 
The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of 

his treasures . . . . . 181 
The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn 303 

The King's most humble servant I . . 175 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith . . 307 

The lamp of day, with ill presaging glare 144 

The last braw bridal that I was at . . 174 
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill 210 

The lovely lass o' Inverness . . . 225 

The man, in life wherever plac'd . . 7 2 




^*w~ 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



361 



The night was still, and o'er the hill . 
The noble Maxwells and their powers . 
The ploughman he's a bonie lad . 
The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps 
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic 

plough 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves 

returning ...... 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing 
The Solemn League and Covenant 
The sun had clos'd the winter day . 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles 

an' a' 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea . 
The tither morn . . . . . 

The weary pund, the weary pund . 
The wind blew hollow frae the hills . 
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes 

at last ....... 

The wintry west extends his blast . 
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among 
Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign 

lands reckon 

There came a piper out o' Fife 
There liv'd a lass in yonder dale 
There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes . 
There was a bonie lass, and a bonie, bonie 

lass 

There was a lad was born at Kyle 
There was a lass, and she was fair 
There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg . 
There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen 
There was once a day, but old Time then 

was young ...... 

There were five Carlins in the south . 
There were three Kings into the east 
There's a youth in this city, it were a great 

pity 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen 

There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes 

There's death in the cup — sae beware! 

There's naethin like the honest nappy! 

There's news, lasses, news 

There's nought but care on every han' 

They snool me sair, and haud me down 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Thine am I, my faithful fair . 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair 

This Day Time winds th' exhausted chain 

This wot ye all whom it concerns 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part . 

Tho' women's minds like winter winds 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind . 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray . 

Thou of an independent mind . 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st 

Thou whom chance may hither lead . 

Thou's welcome, wean! mishanter fa 



PAGE. 

■ J 57 
290 
292 



Though fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me. 
Through and through the inspired leaves 



270 
224 

151 



295 
220 
291 
296 
93 

269 
67 
129 

205 
174 
304 
294 

273 

258 
192 
302 
306 

244 
274 
239 

229 

189 
192 
164 
x6 7 
305 
246 



198 
123 
121 

"5 
231 
263 
163 
237 
265 
122 
94 
85 

146 
168 
164 



119 
164 
272 
3" 



PAGE. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 
friend ....... 

To Riddel, much-lamented man 
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains 
To you, Sir, this summons I've sent . 
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow ....... 195 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza . . . 219 
'Twas even — the dewy fields were green 188 
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle . 1 

'Twas in the seventeen hunder year . 299 

'Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin 205 
'Twas where the birch and sounding thong 
are ply'd . . ... 141 



Up wi' the carles o' Dysart 
Upon a simmer Sunday morn 
Upon that night, when Fairies light . 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee . 
Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! 
Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray 
We came na here to view your warks 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r 
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet 
Wha is that at my bower door? 
Wha will buy my troggin 
Whan I sleep, I dream 
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 
What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch 
What can a young lassie, what shall 

young lassie 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? . 
What needs this din about the town o 

Lon'on 

What of earls with whom you have supt 
What will I do gin my Hoggie die? 
When biting Boreas, fell and doure . 
When by a generous public's kind acclaim 
When chapman billies leave the street 
When chill November's surly blast 
When death's dark stream I ferry o'er 
When , deceased, to the devil went 

down ...... 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle 
When first I saw fair Jeanie's face . 
When first my brave Johnnie lad . 
When Guilford good our Pilot stood . 
When I think on the happy days . 
When Januar' wind was blawing cauld 
When lyart leaves bestrew the yird 
When Nature her great master-piece de 

sign'd ....... 

When o'er the hill the eastern star . 
When the drums do beat 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 
Where are the joys I have met in the morn 

ing 

Where, braving angry winter's storms . 
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea 
While at the stook the shearers cowr 
While briers an' woodbines budding green 



293 
14 
45 

302 
166 
296 
174 
73 
58 
270 
231 
299 
304 
292 
176 

217 

177 

143 
165 
293 
54 
170 

95 
68 
128 



263 
307 

293 
243 
296 
276 

49 

90 
190 
284 
260 

233 
213 
248 

133 

79 




1 

! 



3^2 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty- 
things 

While larks with little wing 
While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake . 
While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood 
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw 
Whoe'er he be that sojourns here 
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know 
Whom will you send to London town 
Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? . 
Why am I loth to leave this earthly 

scene . . 

Why, why tell thy lover .... 

Why, ye tenants of the lake . 

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed . 

Wilt thou be my dearie? 

With Pegasus upon a day .... 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 



116 
193 
80 



59 
174 
182 
297 
140 

70 
239 
137 
165 
259 
224 
198 
167 
112 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 251 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon . 221 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon . . 221 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right . 227 



Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an* Squires 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give 

an ear 

Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this 

sneering 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie 
Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song 
Ye true ' Loyal Natives,' attend to my 

song . . . 
Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 
Yestreen I met you on the moor 
Yon wand' ring rill, that marks the hill . 
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and 

wide ....... 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain . 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad 
Young Peggy blooms our boniest lass 
Your billet, sir, I grant receipt 
Your News and Review, Sir, I've read 

through and through, Sir . . . 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier 
Your' re welcome, Willie Stewart . 
Yours this moment I unseal 



PAGE. 

i73 
9 



301 
179 

179 
301 
168 

168 
235 
214 



232 
300 
254 
257 



138 
266 
187 
167 







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